Hiraeth
by Epsilon Scorpii
Summary: AU Where the events of Halloween night go a little differently, and two wizards cross paths when they are both still shadows of who they will become. The Dark Lord still seeking to regain his powers, and the Boy-Who-Lived, conveniently... a talented street-thief. Mild Powerful!Harry. Rated T for gradually darker themes and an exploration of psychopathy.
1. Chapter 1

_Hiraeth: A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was._

 _..._

 ** _Part I_**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing at all.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

"Delivery service!" Harry called, his voice ringing small in the still air.

The roads ahead were wintry and dark, winding into a maze of sorts stretched across the village. Despite the fact that winter was only due a full month away, the dawn was chilly and bit deep into his skin, numbing his bones. Harry wrapped his jacket tighter around himself to ward off the freezing coldness but the thin layer of fabric provided little warmth. Blowing on his fingers as he rubbed them to ease their numbness, Harry grabbed another bottle of milk from his bicycle and stuffed it into the recycle bag hanging from the gate rafters.

He waited a moment, his feet stuck together as he crouched in the cold wind. Still no one came out, and with a sigh Harry mounted his bicycle once more. It was a slim glimmer of hope, but sometimes a few of the houses would be awake and they would give Harry a penny or two on top of the shillings he earned from the milkman. Technically he was still four years short to be of age for a job, but here far in the outskirts of town no one particularly cared.

It had been that way ever since he could remember. The sponsors of his orphanage were drawing out fast due to some economic crisis or other, and there was hardly enough food to go around much less extra blankets or boots for winter. As a result some of the older yet still underage children often snuck out to secretly earn some keepings and fend for themselves. When the old delivery boy had fell and sprained his ankle last winter, Harry had quickly leapt for the opportunity. He was paid much less than what the other got, but Harry didn't complain – at least Higgins kept quiet about Harry. Between delivering milk to all the nearby houses in the district and some of his …nightly activities, Harry got on pretty well.

Harry rode on the dirt path swiftly, only pausing to consult the milkman's list. There was one additional address scrawled at the bottom of the list, causing Harry to pause. He squinted under the dim light of the streetlamp to read the crabbed handwriting. It was hardly a proper address; written below _11 White-fence Street; Mr. Jackson_ was _House at the end of Middle Street; Tom._ Harry supposed it was pretty straightforward, but Middle Street ran half the length of their little village and it would take Harry longer than the usual half hour to get all the deliveries done.

Bearing in his mind to haggle a few more pennies from Higgins later, Harry rode down the empty streets quickly. Behind him the sky remained dark and Polaris burned brightly in the night. There was still an hour or so before the sun rose, but Harry moved as briskly as he could. He couldn't risk being discovered if he returned to the orphanage late.

Middle Street was a long, bumpy ride. Harry took the backstreets instead of the main ones. He felt more comfortable riding under the cover of the shadows, and besides the back alleys had always felt more welcoming. It probably had a lot to do with his less recent unofficial 'job' that involved numerous infiltrations and escapades. It had started ever since he'd agreed to come under _their_ wing. Often something chewed at the end of his conscience, but Harry couldn't deny the fact that his life had been much better ever since he'd started out being their thief. He was no longer picked out by bullies because of his 'unnaturalness' or 'freaky gifts'; he was now valued because of them.

The leaders had decided to use his unnatural talents to suit their purposes, and as far as Harry was concerned it was a mutualistic agreement. Harry worked for them and in return they kept the bullies away. Sometimes Harry bit off a bit of loot but he was never caught out for that. After all Harry had quickly become the best of their lot. When he was in action, he was practically uncatchable. If he stayed hidden, nobody found him. He always found a way in, and no matter the circumstance he would always make a way out.

Some five minutes later found Harry turning down into an unknown part of Middle Street. He had never been into this area before not even when he cut through the back alleys, mostly because they were completely uninhabited. The streetlamps on the main streets had long since flickered into non-existence but nobody minded. There was nothing but a stretch of flatlands manifested with wild undergrowth and the random house sprouting out of the grounds that had fallen into disrepair. Years ago there had been talk of a new project but it had been abandoned just as quickly.

Harry got off his bicycle and began to lead it through the darkness. Walking down the empty Middle Street though Harry found that he _did_ mind that there was hardly any light left for him to see properly. A sharp sting of wind whipped across his cheek and Harry pressed his hands to his face. With each step Harry was beginning to feel increasingly doubtful. Suppose it was a prank of some sort played by the older kids on himself?

But there was one more bottle of milk left in the carton he'd set out with, which meant Higgins had indeed sent the order. Harry walked more carefully now, there were fallen bits of twigs and branches strewn all over the road where no-one had bothered to sweep. He had almost decided to head back and tell Higgins the house simply didn't exist when Harry finally arrived at the very end of Middle Street. And there, hidden cunningly in the corner was a small shack of sorts. The light was not on, neither did the garden look remotely kempt, but there was a 'HIGGINS FRESH MILK' bag lying forlornly on the doorstep. The rickety gates were left hanging slightly open. The sight however was not in the least welcoming.

Harry walked over the fence with practiced ease and came to a halt right before the door. Ivies hung off the doorframe and the part of window that wasn't smashed in had a thick coating of dust. Unease churned in Harry's gut. The place didn't look habitable at all.

"Hello" he called uncertainly. His voice bounced off the wall inside and echoed back to him in a creepier version. "Delivery service!" Harry said again, but the only reply he got was a cool gust of wind.

Well, at least Higgins couldn't say he didn't do his job, Harry thought. With one last look at the derelict structure, Harry began to walk back towards the entrance, but at the motion something flickered at the corner of his vision like the wink of a candle's flame. Surprised, Harry stopped and turned around slowly. The garden was overgrown with shrubs and wildgrowths, but there was a small clearing at the edge near the dirty white fence. Harry retracted his steps until he came upon it. Right in the middle of it was a small, curious plant barely the height of Harry's thigh. It seemed perfectly normal to the eye, but Harry could have sworn that the leaves rippled with silver when he looked away.

A blast of icy wind rustled through the thickets, snapping Harry out of his daze. When he looked up however Harry noticed that faint streaks of pink were beginning to outline the clouds in the horizon. With a start Harry realized that dawn and the morning sun that would soon follow was fast coming down on him and he still had some ways to go before he could reach the orphanage. Forgetting completely about the little plant in the clearing nor the bottle of milk left untouched on the doorstep, Harry raced back to his bicycle, and very soon he was on his way once more, the frigid autumn air stinging his face as he pedaled as fast as he could.

Even if he had bothered to look back, he wouldn't have seen the stranger dressed in dark flowing robes watch his figure grow smaller and smaller as he sped down the lane until Harry was finally out of sight.

X-X-X-X-X-X

 _Hours later; Cliffton's School for Boys and Girls_

"Today we will be learning about the motions of plants."

The class stared blankly at the teacher standing in the front, who was wearing a fixed smile on her face. She paused as if to gauge their reactions before continuing with an air of forced calm.

"Yes, a most intriguing topic. After all, _how_ could plants _possibly_ move?"

It was evident that nobody was particularly thrilled about the subject. Some didn't bother to disguise their boredom and rolled their eyes, but most kept quiet and faced the blackboard with half-open eyelids. Being used to receiving unwelcome reactions, the teacher ignored them determinedly and resumed her pretense that she was speaking to eager bright-eyed children instead of the equivalent of a solid wall.

"Thigmonasty," she continued. There was a faint murmur as the class gave a collective sigh. "It is the motion of a plant in response to a certain stimuli, namely touch."

At the very last row, Harry's head dipped visibly out of sight before he hastily erected his posture. It was, however, proving to be a vain battle against sleep. It fought to claim him for its own, dragging down his limbs and tugging shut his eyelids persuasively. How he wished he could topple down on his desk where he sat… perhaps nobody would notice…

At the front of the class, the teacher was beginning to raise her voice. "When this happens, the plant will respond immediately by folding its leaves to protect itself against – _are you paying attention or not boy-at-the-last-row?!"_

Harry gave a slight start before realizing that teacher's cane was pointed straight at his desk. As one the class turned to look at him, most of the boys wearing expressions of ill-disguised glee while some of the prim-and-proper girls gave him a disdained sniff for interrupting the lesson. Harry tried to disguise another yawn by holding up his textbook but it was clear that Miss Cane-And-Ruler was not fooled. In a few strides she had crossed the distance between them and her thin stick-like shadow loomed over his book – in which Harry belatedly realized was upside-down.

"I hope for your sake you're on the correct page _Harry_ ," she said through gritted teeth.

Harry hastily flipped the textbook so that it was facing him and rifled through a few pages. He was totally clueless as to what the correct page was, but he quickly realized that the page number had been written clearly on the blackboard. Obediently Harry turned to page fifty-two and gave Cane-And-Ruler an innocent grin, hoping it would suffice.

It didn't. It was one of her bad days, and her mood was sourer than before which was saying something.

"Hold out your hand," Cane-And-Ruler instructed. Harry did so warily, eyeing the cane in her right and the ruler in her left hand. Even if it were up to him to choose, he could never decide which one hurt more. Cane-And-Ruler was experienced in handling both.

It was the ruler this time. Harry bit back a wince as solid wood rapped hard against his knuckles which were still mildly bruised from the day before. Tears watered his eyes slightly but Harry only allowed himself a grimace. Complaining or giving any sort of reaction would only add to Cane-And-Ruler's ire, and frankly it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Stand in the corner. Face the wall." Harry moved to do as he was told, but at the last minute Cane-And-Ruler changed her mind. Perhaps the memory of Harry making an interesting mural magically appear on the last wall he'd stared at for an hour was still fresh. It had been an accurate depiction of herself, drawn all the more hideous when the ruler and cane in her hands were clearly too long for her appendages. The art itself had been astoundingly well-done, definitely speaking of a level of talent well beyond his years. The painter that was hired the very next day privately thought it a waste to erase the 'work of art'.

"Go out into the shed," Cane-And-Ruler barked at him. "The gardener should have something for you to do. And maybe next time you'll consider paying attention when you sit in my class!" The last line, however, was fast getting stale. Clearly Harry had yet to consider that an option.

Instead of going to the shed as he was ordered, Harry made a detour round to the school backyard. Maple leaves littered the ground in a brilliant display of red and gold. Harry could guess that he would be expected to sweep them up, but he was too tired to care at the moment. He crawled behind the huge tree trunk, curled into a ball against the chill and fell into an exhausted sleep.

…

It was approaching dusk when Harry finally headed towards the abandoned shelter that stood right across the backdoor of Cliffton School for Boys and Girls.

He had once more gotten into major trouble with Cane-And-Ruler after he had been discovered to be sleeping when he was supposed to be serving his punishment. As a result he was forced to skip lunch _and_ stay back after school to finish his schoolwork before he was allowed to leave. Above all his palms were still raw and stinging from all the whipping he'd received for his trouble.

Harry had then dragged himself back to the orphanage and slept through dinner. When he finally woke up, he'd nicked some stale bread from the kitchen and stole out of the broken fence near the garden shed. He then put it back in place, draped a strand of ivy over it to disguise the crack and went off to meet the leaders once more. He had only just managed to finish chewing when he arrived at their usual meeting spot, but by then Harry could tell that he was already late. Jack, the leader of the night's operation scowled at him darkly, but otherwise kept silent.

"Tonight we'll be starting off from Picket-Fence Street" Jack began as soon as they were all present. "There's a rich man that just moved in from town two months ago. Flint and Arrow will be on this mission."

Harry nodded. Arrow was the codename they had picked for him, and quite fittingly too.

"Flint will create the distraction, Arrow will infiltrate" Jack continued. Harry wasn't surprised; it was the same routine all the time. "Report back in fifteen minutes. All clear?" Jack said.

Harry and the other boy nodded in silent agreement. Jack handed them both walkie-talkies and Harry a neat little pouch. Harry knew it contained everything he would need to pick any locks in the house. The other boy was given a lighter and a few small brightly coloured packets. When that was done Jack ushered them to move out quickly, and Harry obeyed without hesitation. His eyes were still blurry from sleep, but his body was well-rested and healed once more. At least he didn't feel like collapsing at every step he took. He'd barely gotten any sleep last night from breaking into five consecutive houses and rushing to deliver milk after that.

They arrived soon before a two-storeyed bungalow standing proudly over the rest of the houses in Picket-Fence Street. It was easily the largest and most visible of all of them. When Harry approached the building he noted that unlike the rest of the houses, the one they would be infiltrating had a small balcony as well as front and back gardens. Should he need to escape quickly, there was a small door that led to the backstreets of Middle Street itself.

"Are we starting?" the boy beside him, Flint asked. Harry had never worked with him before; he supposed he was a new recruit. Harry gave him a short nod.

"Lure him out to the front" Harry told him. "I'll get in through the balcony."

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

…

Soon, it was all too evident that not only Flint was a new recruit, he was a very jumpy one. Harry rolled his eyes when his walkie-talkie buzzed to life for the third consecutive time that night, and a voice bordering on both short-temperedness and anxiety crackled through the speakers.

"Where on earth are you now?" Flint demanded. "I said on the count of three!"

Harry gritted his teeth as he resumed his climb on the rough stone wall, ignoring the sharp edges digging into his fingertips. He didn't deign to reply the speaker just in case the effort would cost his concentration. Instead he increased his speed, dragging his foot against stone to maximize the friction before springing upwards lightly. His fingers wrapped neatly around steel, and a familiar strain spread through his arms to his shoulders as Harry swung himself nimbly onto the balcony.

The walkie-talkie in his pocket buzzed angrily with noise at being ignored, and Harry glared at it irritably.

"Hurry _up_ will you!" Flint hissed. "He's coming back in a few minutes! The fireworks only last that long."

"I'm already in alright! If you don't want us to get caught just _stay quiet!_ " Harry snapped back in hushed tones.

Flint fell into a sullen silence, leaving Harry to stuff the walkie-talkie back into his pocket. He couldn't be bothered about offending the boy. Even if he looked bigger than he was, Arrow was the best of the pack, not Flint. And if he kept it up, the leaders would always choose his side over the other's.

Harry listened for a full moment outside the window just in case, but he could hardly make out anything with the fireworks crackling off in the front porch. Somewhere downstairs the front door slammed. Taking it as a good sign Harry quickly produced a small pocket-knife and metal pin. He immediately set to work on the window ledge. The tools felt familiar and light in his hands; he anticipated every single _click_ and obstacles he encountered by vibrations alone. Within half a minute, Harry had already slid it open and had leapt into the room.

The voice in his pocket buzzed to life again. "There should be a shelf to your right. They say there's a loose floorboard there."

Harry crossed the room as instructed. It was very dark despite the streetlights filtering in through the open window. Harry scrabbled around the pouch Jack had given him but it was as good as empty. "I _told_ you guys I need a torch but no," Harry groused to himself. "All you can think of his lowering the budget!"

With no option left he moved towards the corner of the room and strained his eyes in the darkness. There was a table lamp atop a shelf of sorts. Harry bent down and groped blindly around but his fingers only met polished wood. Then his fingers caught the edge of something peeking out from the flat surface and quickly pulled away the loose floorboard as he was told.

There was a box hidden inside with a flimsy lock holding it shut. It didn't take him long to yank the lid open. They were right; there were two conveniently stacked wads of cash hidden beneath a few dog-eared letters. Without hesitation Harry moved to grab one of the two stacks and stood up, ready to leave.

It was then when things began to spiral out of control. It started off with a cry somewhere far below, followed by a loud shout of surprise. Harry startled and reached for his walkie-talkie voluntarily for the first time that night.

"What happened? Are you discovered?" he hissed urgently to Flint.

He strained his ears for a reply, but all he got was static. Harry glanced around the room, tensed as he waited for any sort of response but there was none. Feeling decidedly uncertain, Harry stuffed the cash deep into his pocket. He took time to pinch off some of the notes and hid them beneath his own shoe soles; those would be his to keep. Then he stood by and waited for the signal. And waited.

Something was wrong. He could feel the tension in the night air; everything was silent, far too silent. The fireworks at the front garden had already sputtered out, but there was no sign of anyone returning to the house. Harry reached for his transmitter again. "Come on answer me" he whispered as loud as dared. Nobody answered. "I'm leaving without you," Harry said again. Still there was no response. Harry decided not to wait around for a reply and quickly threw open the window ledge to climb out. He had already put one leg over the balcony in preparation for descent when he heard voices being exchanged below.

"I swear, he's upstairs, he's upstairs!" a boy's voice whimpered.

Startled at the unexpected source of noise, Harry quickly shrank back into the shadows. Below a man's voice cursed loud and ugly. Harry's heart gave a solid _thud_ against his ribcage. His instincts were buzzing on high alert, as if waiting for an assaulter to charge out of the room straight for him.

There was a noise of pain, and then Flint's squeaky voice piped up again. "He'll be coming through the window, I'll call for him I promise – "

The man began to speak again, but Harry didn't wait to hear more. He already knew enough. With a muttered swear he withdrew back into the room quickly, and slid the window shut. If the man was expecting him to escape through the backdoor, the only option he had left was the front. But escaping using the main street was as good as suicide; there wasn't a corner that wasn't brilliantly illuminated by streetlamps, providing him less of a chance of shaking off his pursuer.

Unless he could somehow escape through the front door and race to the back quick enough before the man could stop him, and vault over the high wall, then he could continue his escape into the backstreets. Harry was fairly confident that he would lose the man there; he couldn't afford to pursuit Harry too far leaving his house completely unguarded. But there still left the problem of his own speed.

It was all a matter of time, and if Harry's ran out before he got out, he was in for big trouble indeed.

Harry looked out the window one last time, and far below he could make out a man locking the gate leading to the backstreets, effectively cutting off his best route of escape. In his other hand he dragged a boy by his collar; the boy was groveling pitifully beside him. Harry gritted his teeth in frustration.

If he ever got back, he was going to kill Flint.

.

 **A/N: There you go, chapter 1. Hope you enjoyed it! :)**

 **Rating system for those who are lazy/has limited time/unable to express themselves in words (:P)**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**


	2. Chapter 2

Thousand, million thanks to **BreathingStar, PhoenixxRising, _fanfanateek_** _and my special guests who reviewed! Also thank you to the 10 others who added this to their favorite lists despite this story only having one chapter going. :D This chapter is dedicated to you!_

DISCLAIMER: I think I've written almost 50 disclaimers for the HP fandom already... can I let this one go? :P

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Harry ran to the bedroom door and threw it open.

There was a staircase leading to the middle of a living room at the ground floor, where a radio was still switched on. Ironically there was a discussion going on about the _proper upbringing and education of a child_. Harry caught a few words about 'parental guiding' and 'preventing children from going astray' before he heard a furious jingling of keys coming up from the kitchen, and all other thoughts left his mind. With a fluidity that spoke of experience, Harry jumped onto the bannisters and began to slide down at breakneck speed. When he reached the bottom he sprang off smoothly and surveyed his surroundings.

The lights in the living room cast shadows about the walls, making Harry feel decidedly vulnerable. His eyes strayed briefly to the row of switches, but then with a single thought in his mind, the lamp flickered off with a soft _pop._ Congratulating himself briefly at the usefulness of his 'unnatural' skills, Harry turned back to the first matter at hand: getting out of the house undetected.

From the clanking sounds coming from outside, Harry deduced that the man was trying to lock him in. Briefly Harry wondered if the man was intelligent enough to remember that the front door locked from the inside. Deciding to go through with his final plan, Harry skidded over to the door and flung it open. Instantly cool night air rushed out to greet him, and Harry allowed himself to take a little comfort from that. At least he had made it out into the open.

That was his first mistake. The moment he let down his guard even for the briefest of seconds, a huge beefy man came charging out from the backyard, waving a garden shovel madly in his hand. With a furious cry he lunged forwards to grab Harry but the boy had twisted out of the way in a swiftly.

"Sorry, sorry, very sorry" Harry muttered each time he ducked a blow. He made sure to keep his face hidden under a hoodie so that the man couldn't identify him.

"Give it back!" the man howled angrily.

Harry had no intention of doing so. But on the other hand, sneaking in and thieving off people's stuff, he was used to that, but he rarely had any physical encounters with the people he stole from – he was always just careful enough to avoid being discovered until he had left. Harry wasn't sure if he would be any good in a fight though he doubted it. Running away, ducking and weaving was his specialty. He was hard to catch, but if he was… Harry didn't like to think about the consequences.

Harry sidestepped a punch and finally managed to shake free of the man's hold on his sleeve. Seizing his chance while the man was distracted, Harry threw himself down and rolled past the space between the man's legs speedily. He completed the maneuver with a quick jump the moment he was back on his feet and landed neatly out of striking range.

"I am warning you!" the man shouted after him. His face was contorted with rage, and sweat ran down the side of his face to pool at his neck. He was panting like a fish out of water. Harry felt sorry for him, but not nearly enough to return any of the loot. He gave the man a slight apologetic nod, hoping the man wouldn't think he was mocking him, turned tail and fled.

What he hadn't accounted for was that the man was still holding onto the garden shovel. Enraged at his failed attempts to apprehend the thief, the man threw the piece of metal right at Harry's turned back. Harry was running so fast he was certain the blow would have missed, but it didn't. The shovel spun into the air and jarred his right shoulder in an explosion of pain. Even adrenaline could only numb it so much. Harry gave a cry of pain but he continued to run, a hand clutching at his shoulder, leaving the shovel planted in the ground and the man hurling abuse from behind.

The earth pounded beneath him as he ran, no longer swift or silent but in agony and desperate. The white-washed wall loomed up before him, and suddenly it seemed too high for him to climb. Harry bit his lip so hard that he tasted copper on his tongue. He didn't bother trying the door; however fast he could be, there wouldn't be nearly enough time for him to pick the lock and get away.

"You're just going to break your neck!" the man yelled after him. "I've locked the door there's no way to – "

The man broke off. Harry had reached the end of the garden and he hadn't slowed down. Instead he jumped upwards in a terrifying leap and soared into the air. When the man blinked, Harry had already vaulted over the wall and disappeared from sight. It was as if he had simply disappeared and materialized over the high wall. From where Harry had jumped, considering the height of the wall, it simply wasn't a possible feat – and yet Harry had done it. For a moment, the man stood there stunned with his mouth hanging open, but he recovered quickly and began to fumble for the keys to unlock the backyard door. Flint had taken advantage of the chaos and disappeared over the front gates but the man couldn't be bothered – after all Harry was the thief in operation.

On the other side, Harry stumbled to his feet and continued his flight onwards, a hand pressed over his throbbing shoulder. He was so absorbed with getting away from the house that Harry almost didn't notice when he ran straight into someone. He startled and looked up, an apology on the tip of his tongue. It was a stranger he had never seen before, dressed in black immaculate robes. Harry's gaze widened briefly, but before he managed to say anything, the stranger had pressed a finger to his lips and pulled him under the shadows.

The man from the house arrived soon after that, breathing heavily from exertion. He unlocked the small gate and pushed it outwards, where it connected with the wall in an angry _clang!_ His beady eyes scanned the street, and he began to stride forwards with a scarily determined expression.

There was nothing Harry could do about it; they were standing dangerously near. Harry froze, expecting the man to discover them within seconds. But what happened next was completely unexpected. The man took another step forwards and suddenly a confused expression stole over his livid features. He stopped short and raised a hand to scratch his head. Then, as if he couldn't for the life of him remember what inspired him to leave in the first place, he began to wander back to his house. Harry watched with wide eyes as the man even locked the backdoor gate before leaving.

As soon as it creaked shut, Harry felt hands release him. Feeling as bewildered as the man from the house had, he stumbled out of their hiding place. Harry's mind was still reeling at the close-call. He looked up, not sure what to expect, but whatever Harry had in mind didn't prepare him for this.

His emerald eyes met striking dark green ones that seemed to hold glints of crimson like shards of ruby crystals. Instantly Harry felt something tingle down his spine at the connection. His scar prickled unpleasantly, but Harry was too distracted to notice. The stranger had a pale, gaunt face with hollowed cheeks. The dim light from the sputtering streetlamps did little to illuminate his face under the hood, but Harry could make out high prominent cheekbones. He could tell features that had once been handsome but now it was the picture of both magnificent yet terrible at the same time.

The stranger seemed to be studying Harry just as intently. There was an aura of immeasurable power radiating from him, causing the words to freeze in Harry's throat, but Harry swallowed and asked the first question that burned in his mind.

"Do – do I know you sir?" Harry asked. It was a strange question to ask someone he had just met for the very first time, but there was an incomprehensible spark of familiarity about the stranger. The elder of the pair seemed to start slightly at this question. Still there was a faint smile about him when he replied.

"We have never made acquaintances, Harry" he said, "but I do believe you know me as Tom."

Harry racked his brains for someone named 'Tom' that he knew. Then the morning's list came back to him and Harry's eyes widened. "The house at the end of Middle Street?" he said for confirmation.

Tom inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Oh so you _do_ live there" Harry said, sounding a little relieved. He wanted to say 'I was beginning to think your house was haunted' but it wasn't the most polite thing to voice out, so he kept quiet. Tom however seemed to know what was on his mind.

"It isn't the most habitable place on earth, but I get by" he said dryly. Harry gave him a sheepish grin in return.

"So, Harry" Tom continued. "Would you like to drop by for coffee?"

His tone sounded mildly sarcastic, but Harry couldn't be sure. Tom nodded in the general direction of the dark narrow path ahead, where the end of Middle Street lay less than a hundred meters away. Harry shrugged in reply, ignoring the slight sting in his shoulder when he did so. It would probably bruise impressively the day after, but at least he had managed to get through tonight mostly unscathed.

"Sure, why not?"

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

They arrived back at the very spot where Harry had been standing hours ago before daybreak. Perhaps it was because Harry knew that the place was inhabited, the house didn't look that derelict after all. Just like when he had first visited, no light emitted from the shattered bulb at the front porch. Since they had been walking in the backstreets for the past few minutes with limited sources of light, however, Harry found that his vision adjusted to the dark quickly.

Tom let them in through the rickety gates that still hung open wide enough for one person to slip in. Harry's eyes searched the clearing at the edge of the garden he remembered seeing earlier, but there was no plant standing in the middle of it. Surprised, Harry left Tom's side and came to stand before the bare patch of earth. There was nothing there. Not even the smallest trace of a small plant peeking through the earth, nor leaves that rippled with silver.

"Tom, wasn't there a plant here this morning?" Harry asked, puzzled.

Tom looked over with a flicker of a knowing smile on his face. "There was," he said. "However it only responds when it is called from the earth."

Harry looked at him with an expression that suggested that he'd misheard. "When it iswhat?" Harry said, confused.

"You could only see it because it contains a magical aura, and your own could sense it" Tom continued in a soft voice. He came to stand beside Harry, and beneath the dark soil something sparkled slightly. Harry remained silent, a hundred question marks heralding his mind, but there was something about Tom's voice that made Harry unable to voice his questions. It was all spoken in a matter of fact tone, as if it were a piece of common ground knowledge everyone knew, something unchallengeable and definite.

Harry's brain was still buzzing at hundred miles per hour, trying to figure out the conundrum hidden in Tom's words so that they made sense. Even the night air in the garden seemed unnaturally cold and quiet, tense and still. Something Harry couldn't identify seemed to pulse in the very atmosphere. It was as if the world was holding its breath for something to happen, and Harry found himself doing the same when Tom stepped forwards.

Wide-eyed, Harry watched as Tom raised a hand over the bare patch of earth and hissed a single word.

" _Rise."_

The effect was instantaneous. A strange light seemed to glow under brown soil. It started off as a soft glow before it spread out through the cracks of the soil like glitter, and like a new shoot breaking through snow to face the warm spring sun, the strange little plant Harry had saw that morning broke free of the earth and began to grow. Harry gave a yelp when it abruptly began to shoot skywards, a faint light wending around the plant when it did. Its stem thickened into a wiry twist of wood, and it grew so quickly and rapidly that very soon it was beginning to tower over the house. Branches sprouted high above their heads and leaves were brought to life in tiny speckles of light. Harry could feel the ground vibrate slightly as its roots branched deep into the soil.

Then, just as sudden as it had been called to life, it stopped growing. The small forlorn looking plant from his first visit was no longer in sight; instead in its place stood a tall majestic tree. Harry stared at it agape with amazement. The wood seemed to radiate an unearthly shade of gold when he wasn't looking at it directly, and he could've sworn the rippling leaves formed words as they whispered.

There was a light in Tom's eyes that hadn't been there before when he watched Harry's reaction. Gingerly Harry reached out a hand to touch its bark. A flurry of sparks followed his initial contact, falling to earth like miniature stars. When Harry finally tore his gaze away to look at Tom, his eyes were still lit with wonder and amazement, but there was something else there too; something almost like belief.

"In response to your unvoiced question, yes that's a magical plant" Tom said wryly, breaking the awestruck silence. There was still a smirk-smile playing on his lips though. Harry continued to stare wide-eyed at him, uncomprehending. Tom didn't seem to mind. He shrugged and began to move back towards the house with an air of nonchalance.

"So… do you prefer hot chocolate or coffee?"

Harry took one last glance at the tree before looking at Tom's retreating back with a measure of incredulousness. His head spun. Was this even real?

"Uh – " Harry said, walking slowly backwards to the house as he followed Tom. The tree was still standing there, huge and most certainly alive, towering over the house and showing no sign of disappearing anytime soon. Harry turned around. Tom was waiting for him at the threshold, and suddenly there was a lamp he couldn't remember seeing hanging from the ceiling.

"…hot chocolate?" Harry managed to reply dazedly.

.

 _a/n: Last scene written while listening to front instrumental part of 'Eternal Love' by Michael Learns to Rock. It's the tune that really fits. I always get this 'awwhhh' feeling when I listen to the song, especially the cello at the front. Go and check it out! Maybe you'll understand what I'm trying to say heheh...?_

 _Anyway.. liked it? Hated it? Review please? :P_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Tom led him into the living room of what Harry had assumed was a decrepit little house. There were two ornate armchairs that looked like something out of a 19th century house set in the middle. Both were high-backed and had cushions made of something remarkably like green velvet. A low coffee table occupied the space between them, and a simple yellow damp dangled from the plaster. Harry was vaguely surprised to note that despite the musty, dark interior there was a surprising comfort in its ambience.

Wordlessly Tom gestured for Harry to sit down, and he did so with a bump. He soon realized that the chair was mightily uncomfortable and prevented him from slouching as much as he liked. Harry eyed the wooden floorboard with a little regret. He couldn't help but think that it would be a more comfortable spot to lounge.

While Harry was left battling a losing battle against the stubbornly stiff back of the chair, Tom disappeared to the back to prepare their drinks. Not long after he emerged carrying a glass for himself and a mug for Harry. Harry accepted it rather eagerly with thanks; anything sweet were rare treats in the orphanage. Tom merely watched Harry impassively as the younger of the pair sipped the hot liquid, savouring its taste contentedly. It was thin and barely even sweet, but the drink was warm and filling which was a welcome change from the cold wind outside.

"Let us begin with you" Tom said when Harry had finished. He put down his own glass on the table. Harry saw that it contained a curious amber coloured liquid that burned under the tinkling light. "What were you doing in 12 Picket-Fence Street?"

Harry squirmed slightly at the question. The thought of magic was still buzzing at the forefront of his mind, and it occurred to him that Tom might have already known what exactly his nightly activities entailed. For all he knew Tom could simply fashion a crystal ball that showed him everything every single individual on earth was doing. He had a feeling Tom already knew the truth; it wasn't as if it were a difficult thing to guess, but for some reason he'd decided to play the trust game or something with Harry. Harry nibbled his lip as he weighed his options.

"They call me Arrow," he said at last, a little hesitantly. "I've been working for _them_ for quite some time. They scour information, another works on the distraction and I break in. It's what I'm best at, I suppose."

Tom nodded slowly as if contemplating this piece of information. If he was disdainful that Harry was nothing more than a common street-thief he didn't show it. "How good are you at it?" Tom asked offhandedly. Harry couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

"Um alright I suppose?" Harry replied uncertainly. "I'm the best out of them, I've never been caught, and I'm still alive. Except today _was_ a close call, so thanks for that by the way," he added. Tom didn't reply but continued to swirl his drink in the glass absently. Harry chewed his lip in silence. Twice he looked up from beneath his bangs to read Tom's expression, but the other gave nothing away. Then Harry remembered something and looked up with a start.

"Just now – when the man didn't even see me there and walked back to his house, you did something didn't you? It was magic?" Harry clarified, his green eyes bright with excitement.

"It was," Tom answered distractedly. "It's one of the simpler spells wizards little better than Squibs can perform."

A slight shadow had fallen over Tom's eyes when he replied, but Harry didn't notice. He suddenly became excited; after seeing proof that magic existed Harry wanted to talk and learn more about the new world he had just discovered over the span of the last hour. It was as if he were seeking confirmation from every single detail to assure himself it wasn't all a phantasmagoric hallucination. "And just now in the garden," Harry persisted. "Was that a spell too? When you told the plant to 'rise'?"

At this, Tom looked up sharply. The light caught his dark green eyes, and when they glinted his eyes flashed a piercing red. Harry stopped short, slightly alarmed by this sudden change. The light hanging above them flickered slightly. Harry suddenly realized that all was extremely quiet – there was no dripping of water from leaking pipes one would expect from such a rundown house, no buzzing of electricity.

"It was no spell," Tom said haltingly, breaking the silence. His eyes, while back to their normal shade of green, were now transfixed on Harry with a fierce sort of intensity, as if he were seeing something new. "The command was merely spoken in another form of language, one only the most ancient and noble wizarding families ever recognize, let alone understand." Harry stared at him, his scar hidden beneath his bangs prickling to life once more. "Tell me something Harry" Tom said softly. "Are you able to speak to snakes?"

Shadowed green eyes bored into his almost hungrily, forceful and demanding. Harry found himself returning the gaze evenly although his heart was fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage in his chest. "I might have thought I heard a grass snake talk once," Harry said, feeling rather out of depth. "But I don't think it counts – "

" _What about now?"_ Tom cut him off, switching flawlessly into the snake's language. He watched Harry closely, fascinated as Harry had been with the tree standing outside in the garden. Harry blinked, confused.

"What about now?" he repeated stupidly.

Tom laughed. It was a musical sound, cold yet not quite. But there was genuine mirth colouring his eyes when Tom looked up, and for some reason Harry felt the prickling feeling against his skin vanish to be replaced by an odd sense of relief. He didn't speak, but continued to stare at Harry as if he'd never seen him before.

"So… does that mean I have the… thing? Magic?" Harry asked, feeling silly but having to know the answer at the same time.

"You have much potential in you Harry," Tom said by way of reply, a slight smile playing on his lips. There was a small gleam of feverish excitement in his eyes, but it could once more be the effect of the light. "I've seen you do it – take how you vaulted over the wall for example. I'm sure you've experienced many more similar incidences, but as of yet you remain untrained." He leaned in closer, catching Harry's eyes with his own. "I could teach you to use and control your powers," he said. "But after that, I expect you to do something for me in return."

Harry's eyes lit up at the prospect of learning magic. The idea was so surreal; it felt like a bizarre dream come true. He felt a small uncertain smile tug at his lips, a thousand possibilities running through his head. He wasn't sure if he had fully wrapped his mind around the idea yet, but a larger part of him must have for he stuck out his hand to seal the deal.

"Anything I can," he promised, meaning every word.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

…

The following morning was wet and cloudy. It had drizzled lightly over the last night, but though the rain had cleared wet fog still remained. It clung to the sleeves of their shirts and made pedestrians shiver slightly in the cold. As a result the streets were mostly empty; only the sweet shop was left open to tempt the children to part with their money. Most of the students continued to walk head-down back to the orphanage, ignoring the tantalizing candies that cluttered the shelf on display, but a handful of them parted from the bunch to peer excitedly through the grimy windows.

Harry dragged his feet tiredly as he trudged down the narrow path, lingering far behind the rest of the students. His shoulder, where he had been hit by the shovel last night felt as though it were crushed and hammered in place by a long nail. He could hardly raise it without wincing in pain, and writing anything decent enough to read was out of the question. To top it off, his eyelids were once more fighting the urge to slip shut as he walked down the seemingly endless road back to Wool's. He had lost track of how much time he'd spent with Tom the night before; there had been too much to discuss, too much to know. By the time he had reached the orphanage, he had only been left with a few hours of sleep before dawn was upon him, and he had to rush over to Higgins' to deliver milk.

His job had taken him to Tom's place again in the early morning, but daybreak had been mere minutes' away and Harry couldn't linger even if he wanted to. He'd left the milk by the doorstep, took one last glance at the empty clearing and left. He had hoped to see the plant rippling with silver under the morning light but once more he couldn't risk running late. The backyard would only remain clear for so long.

When Harry had finally arrived at school, disheveled and once more hiding under the pretense that he had overslept, Cane-And-Ruler had given him the cane on both of his palms. Harry found that he didn't mind it that much save that he was required to raise his hands to receive the blow, and the effort sent new waves of pain shooting up his injured arm.

For the rest of the day Harry had spent it dozing off at the back row of the classroom, and when he was caught and sent out of the class he performed the art of sleeping while standing in the corridor. Finally when he had handed in a single squiggly line as his essay homework, Mr. Fields his English teacher had promptly sent him to sweep the backyard as punishment. When Harry had arrived stumbling at the shed however, the gardener had taken pity on him and allowed him to collapse in a corner to sleep. Harry gathered he must have looked pretty terrible.

All in all it had been an exhausting day, and his throbbing shoulder made even the simplest activities difficult, which irked him immensely. His temper had been spiking dangerously close to fraying point in the times when he wasn't too busy falling asleep, and even the normal bout of teasing from the other boys had subsided. At least they were wise enough to steer clear of Harry when he was at his worst. The same however couldn't be said for Flint.

Harry didn't know the boy's real name, but he had seen Flint around Cliffton's before. He mostly kept to himself and was the dark brooding sort, but Harry supposed that had changed after the school gang took him up just as they had done Harry. Flint never had a reason to approach Harry so they steered clear of each other's paths, but today proved different. Even in his severely sleep-deprived state, Harry couldn't help but notice that the boy who was walking at the very edges of the general crowd was slowing down purposely so that Harry could catch up with him.

Harry didn't feel like talking to Flint so soon after last night's stunt, so Harry had avoided the other boy completely. Unfortunately Flint wasn't inclined to do the same. Twice already he had gestured to Harry when nobody was looking – after all however huge _their_ influence was they weren't above the authorities and discretion had always been stressed. But Harry continued to treat the boy as he would a blank stretch of wall. Flint was already rapidly beginning to lose his patience, but it only spurred Harry to find even more excuses to slow down. He walked as stiffly as possible and limped occasionally as if he had hurt his leg last night instead of his shoulder.

It didn't take long for them to be left behind. Five minutes into their walk and the fringes of the group had thinned and disappeared from sight round the corner. When Harry turned into the grove, it was only him and Flint left struggling up the streets for different reasons altogether.

Finally Jack gave up all pretenses and stopped in his tracks. After making sure there was no one left present to overhear their conversation, he turned around and glared at Harry right in the eye.

"Did you get it last night," Flint hissed to Harry.

Harry stopped short and raised an eyebrow at him.

"How did your meeting with Jack go?" he said instead flippantly. "Providing you actually showed up as ordered, and you didn't run away?"

Flint gave a menacing growl, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to be intimidated. After all he'd just witnessed the very same boy being begging to be released the moment he was threatened the night before. Instead he rolled his eyes and continued walking, ignoring the other boy completely. Flint muttered a swear behind him and shuffled closer to keep up. It was then when it occurred to Harry that the leaders might have found out what happened when Flint returned without Arrow, and they had not taken Flint's failure lightly.

"The leaders are already waiting at the usual spot," Flint said again in a low, controlled voice. "We have to go."

 _We?_ Harry mused. His intuitions were more accurate than he thought. Still, Harry gave no indication of hearing him and continued walking. Jack eyed him suspiciously.

"Where are you going?"

Harry had turned off the path leading to their usual meeting place beyond the torn fence near a badly vandalized playground. He was heading straight back for Wool's. He didn't feel like facing the leaders just yet, not when he was already turning the idea of quitting in his head. In fact, he'd already made the decision in his heart. It was something that had been on his mind since last night. He didn't think they would take to it kindly though.

" _Hey!_ It's this way idiot!" Flint hissed. "Keep this up and we're going to be late!"

Harry ignored him and turned the corner, hoping to shake the other boy off. Behind him he heard Flint swear loudly, and the next moment Flint had grabbed onto his arm and was trying to steer him forcefully in the right direction. In response Harry threw off the other boy's hand roughly and started walking faster.

Flint looked at him incredulously before trying to run after him, but someone else appeared making the boy stop short. Harry realized that they were no longer alone the moment Flint fell silent, but he didn't turn around. There was a bark of mirthless laughter behind him. "What's this? Feeling rebellious today, Harry?"

Harry gritted his teeth at the sound of the familiar voice. Harry felt a stir of anger bubbling up in his chest. Of course, a rest never came easy, not when he was caught up with _them._ He forced himself to spin around. Jack was leaning against the wall, head cocked to one side as he studied Harry. Harry set his jaw determinedly. Since things had spiraled this far, there was little point in putting off the inevitable.

"I'm not rebelling," Harry answered finally, emerald eyes meeting the other's gaze evenly. "I quit."

The atmosphere changed immediately. Jack stopped in his tracks, not bothering to follow Harry, and Harry suddenly knew with a sense of dread why. He was being surrounded. Had the rest of the leaders come because they were tired of waiting for him to show up? Harry hadn't reported back after last night, and Flint had faced the music of botching up the mission alone. They had probably tailed him the moment his classes had ended. Harry briefly wished that he had feigned being sick and had stayed at the orphanage this morning. He really didn't want to deal with them in this moment.

"Hand over the cash from last night and we'll talk," Jack said. There was a spark of anger in his eyes, but Harry knew he had the leverage while he still held on to the loot. But at the same time it would only paint himself as the target, especially if he refused to hand it over. Well, Harry thought – if he was going to quit he might as well take a bit of retirement compensation. He thought it was well earned.

"Last night?" Harry gave a mocking laugh. "Last night was a disaster. You should ask Flint. He sold out my position, and I was forced to hand over everything if I wanted my life." He paused, looking straight at the leader, and he could tell that Jack was caught between believing his lie or not. Clearly Jack had forced the story out of Flint, and had expected as much, but at the same time Harry was Arrow and Arrow simply never failed his missions, being sold out or not.

"Last night was my final mission, and I quit," Harry continued with a hint of finality, giving Jack no chance to question his lie. "There is nothing more to talk about."

"We can't accept that Harry," Jack's voice had turned very dangerous now. "Surely you know that."

"You know you can't force me either," Harry countered with a flash of a falsely sweet smile. He was the picture of forced calm, but his eyes already calculating routes as he scanned their surroundings.

Jack gave a menacing growl and his nostrils flared at Harry's words. "We'll see about that," he said angrily.

He raised his fingers to his lips to summon the other boys over, but even as a shrill whistle split the air Harry was already moving. He ran back in the original direction he had come from, pushing past Jack and breaking through Flint's flimsy attempt at defense. Behind him there were loud cries of "Stop him!" and footsteps came thundering down the street. Harry only ran harder, sprinting easily down the streets as he navigated turns and bends easily. He'd been here countless of times, and running away had always been his specialty. He already had his route planned out in his head.

Two right turns, cut through the newspaper man's garden, over the low-fence, a sharp left turn and then over the wall at the end of Fence Street.

Harry swerved and ducked as he took flight, his light footfalls negotiating each bend in a fluid motion. Behind him all his pursuers could see was a blur of black. Harry sprinted over gravel and grass, leapt lightly over the low-fence and turned a sharp corner.

He reached the dead end of the road in no time. A brick wall stood between him and the winding path leading to the backdoor of the orphanage. He ran over to it and jumped, grabbing hold of the edge of the wall with his fingers as he had done numerous times before. Only this time it didn't quite go according to plan. Harry gave a cry of pain he the moment he exerted pressure on his injured appendage. He fell back helplessly to the ground against the crumbling wall. Cursing under his breath clutched at his shoulder and surveyed the damage for the first time under the light. It was a horrid swell of greenish purple dotted with numerous blood clots. His right arm hung limply in its socket, useless.

He couldn't afford to change tracks now, not when his pursuers were closing their net on him fast. He didn't know how long it would take for them to find him, but given the number of people after his trail it wouldn't take them long. In his desperation Harry tried to vault over the wall again but the sharp pain shooting up his hand forced him to let go.

A hand clamped down on his left shoulder.

Automatically Harry swerved away, shaking free of the grip. He jumped backwards anticipating a blow, but when he looked up it was to a quite familiar face. An old man with wispy white hair wearing a ferocious scowl was glaring straight at him accusingly. Harry felt both relief and shame wash over him.

"Hi uncle Scrooge," he said sheepishly.

 **A/N: Hit the button below people! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter dedicated to the 4 special people whose names are written below :P**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

"I'd be damned if I ever had a nephew like you," a rough voice said darkly. "And for the last time boy my name isn't Scrooge. So, tell me what trouble have you landed yourself into this time?"

They were sitting in small room cluttered with a wide assortment of objects – broken clocks, old papers, notes, fountain pens and a few wobbly chairs pushed into the corner in a vain attempt to create more space. Most of the furniture seemed to be crippled; the only few which were standing were a low coffee table and a huge but uncomfortable-looking armchair which now contained the speaker. Harry himself was perched over the ex-coffee table. Harry knew perfectly well the reason why the place was in shambles and he felt an odd brush of guilt whenever he remembered that incident, but still this place felt more homely than anywhere else he had ever been.

"It's not like you ever told me your real name," Harry said almost sulkily as Scrooge wrapped another bandage over Harry's shoulder a little too tightly. "Ouch!" he yelped as Scrooge pulled the bandage even tighter for his trouble.

"And for good reason too," the old man retorted sharply. "I take it you've been running errands for them again?"

Harry knew all too well who Scrooge was referring to, and he ducked his head slightly. "Yeah" he mumbled in agreement. Scrooge's lips thinned and he let go of Harry's hand.

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother," he said with a scowl.

Harry offered the man a tentative grin. "Because you like me too much not to?" he said cheekily. Scrooge rolled his eyes and turned away to put back the first-aid kit on a collapsing shelf. Harry smiled at that before he sobered slightly.

"Actually I was in the middle of doing exactly what you've been nagging me to do this whole time," Harry told him. "I just told the leader I quit."

Scrooge raised a skeptical eyebrow. " _You_ quit? Now that's a little hard to believe."

"It's true!" Harry insisted. "That's why he went ballistic and sent his lackeys after me. Why else would they be chasing me if I was working for them?"

Scrooge continued to eye him suspiciously. "So you're telling me you had a sudden change of heart?" he said in a snarky tone. "Suddenly decided you wanted to be a good boy for a change?"

Harry shifted a bit before he replied. "Someone offered to teach me some… important stuff, but his conditions are such that if I take up his offer I have to quit," Harry replied. Harry knew it sounded vague but couldn't tell Scrooge what the 'important stuff' was; he doubted Scrooge would understand anyway. Tom's words from last night still rang clearly in his mind – _magic is only a dream for all of them out there, but it's real for people like you and me._

Scrooge gave him a disbelieving look. "And you turned? Just like that?" his voice rose slightly, his eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows glaring fiercely at Harry. "So, had I offered to teach you how to repair old clocks, I would have saved years of energy of trying to make you quit?"

"It's different!" Harry protested. "I wouldn't want to know how to repair old clocks! What I'm going to learn is more… essential… for my survival," Harry said, quoting Scrooge's own lines from ages ago. The reminder didn't serve its purpose to placate Scrooge. In fact he bristled and looked as if he'd just been insulted.

"So you aren't going to come clean?" he said in a fierce voice. Clearly he was taking Harry's refusal to tell him what the 'important stuff' was the wrong way. Harry opened his mouth to say something, before closing it with a troubled look on his face. "Well I _can't,"_ Harry said with a pouting edge to it. "I promised not to. You can't hold that against me."

Scrooge snorted loudly and drew himself to his full height. He turned his back on Harry and picked up a broken clock on the slanted table. "Fine!" he muttered just loud enough for Harry to hear. "Go on and waste your life. See if I care." From the clutter beneath the pile of newspapers Scrooge somehow managed to produce a screwdriver and he began working on the clock fiercely. Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his hair with his good hand.

"I swear it isn't anything bad," Harry tried to assure Scrooge but then he paused slightly. "Well, not all of it at any rate. And anyway all of this will only be temporary! I'll figure out what I want to do, and maybe I'll get a decent job when I move out of the orphanage. Maybe I'll be an athlete or something. The next Carl or whatever his name is. I could become a professional sprinter! There you see, I'll be putting my talents to good use!"

Harry chanced a look at Scrooge. The man was twisting a piece of wire with a fierce expression on his face. Harry pursed his lips. Scrooge liked to lecture him about his future and talk of jobs and life in the most pessimistic way possible, and most of them involved Harry sitting by the road in ten years' time missing a limb and feeling sorry for himself. He always ended his speech with ' and _that's what's goin' to happen if you continue to live like that!'_ But today Scrooge was set on waging the cold war, and he didn't jump at the opportunity for more lectures.

"Don't worry I'll make sure to come back and see you from time to time," Harry added into the brooding silence. "You like Jamaican coffee or something right? I'll buy you loads of those and we can finally call things even-stevens. As for this… mess, well you can't say I didn't offer, but you said it yourself you didn't want to move out."

Scrooge's eye twitched visibly, but he resumed his angry tapping when a stubborn screw refused to obey him. Harry sighed in a long-suffering manner. Time to play his last card.

"Yeah I know I'm really loveable and you'll miss me dreadfully when I leave in ten years' time, but it really can't be helped," Harry said purposely.

Scrooge's hand stilled, causing Harry to sniffle to hide his grin. Scrooge's wizened features twisted into a ferocious scowl and he looked up to shoot a baleful glare at the younger boy who was swinging his legs merrily.

"If you're done hiding in my house from your _ex-_ employers I think it's about time for you to leave," he snapped at Harry.

Completely unfazed, Harry faked a hurt look though he was inwardly rejoicing at his mini victory. "You don't enjoy my company?"

"I enjoy working in peace," Scrooge retorted waspishly.

Harry pulled a pitiful face in which was met with impassiveness, but still he made no move to leave. Instead Harry reached for an old metal tin atop of the collapsing shelf and dipped his hand inside. To his delight it was brimful with a variety of candies and sweets; it had been emptying on his last visit. Harry found a chocolate quickly and pulled off the wrapper. When Scrooge looked up Harry took a bite and offered the rest of the sweet to him, to which Scrooge rejected with a look of disgust and turned back to repairing the clock. Harry only grinned back with chocolate-stained teeth and reached for another.

Harry continued to sit there in comfortable silence. The only sounds that punctuated it were the furious tapping of Scrooge when the clock stubbornly refused to work, and the occasional twittering of a bird outside. Most of the animals were flocking off to their homes or migrating someplace else in search of warmth as winter was gradually looming near. Harry allowed himself a contented sigh as he sucked on his sweet; sugar was a rare treat in the orphanage, and everything he 'earned' was mostly channeled into food and necessities to live through winter. There were never enough blankets to go around during the bitter cold.

After Harry had finished chewing his third sweet, he finally got up to leave. His pursuers had probably left a long time ago, and it wouldn't do for him to be late enough to warrant a punishment again. Harry didn't mind sweeping fallen leaves in the summer, but the temperature had plummeted drastically over the season.

"Thanks Scrooge," Harry called over his shoulder as he made for the door. The old man only grunted, not looking up, but Harry knew he'd heard him. With a smile he headed back outside, his heart eagerly counting down the hours until he could leave for the house at the end of Middle Street.

…

It was a dark and vast open night that Harry woke to. There was a feeling of excitement churning in his gut when he checked the clock hanging on the opposite wall. Harry glanced around cautiously at the four sleeping figures around him. Silently he crept off the mattress and threw the thin blanket he had over his schoolbag. Hopefully if anyone woke they would be groggy enough not to notice his absence.

Five minutes later Harry was stealing through the broken fence at the orphanage backyard. Once he'd finished decorating the ivy hanging over it, he was off, breaking into a swift run as the wind whipped past his ears and caressed his skin like snow. Harry felt a smile creep over his face as he did; he relished the moment of racing through the familiar paths in the dark, where no one could stop or catch him. It was as if for a moment he owned the entire village, and the roads and alleys and dead-end streets were his to roam free.

He arrived flushed and buzzing with adrenaline at the very end of Middle Street. A flurry of silver caught his attention as he reached the last house, and with a rush Harry felt his breath leave him slightly when he saw the magical tree standing in the clearing once more, its branches providing the perfect canopy over the house. Harry hopped nimbly over the fence, and his smile broke into a grin when he saw that Tom was already standing there waiting.

Harry hastened to join Tom under the shade, and before he could help it he traced a finger over its bark again. He wasn't disappointed: a small flurry of golden sparks trailed from his touch. Tom looked amused at Harry's reaction but he said nothing.

"What's it called?" Harry gestured to the tree. He was the first to break the silence. Being with Tom, Harry got the feeling that greetings were never needed.

In response to his question the leaves seemed to ripple and the wind conveyed their message in a whisper, but Harry couldn't hear it.

"This is a Wyr Tree," Tom replied after a pause. "It's considered an endangered species even in the magical world; simply because it only responds to the snake language and cannot be cultivated by any other means. Its seeds can remain dormant up to hundreds of years, but after that they wither and disintegrate into gold dust." Tom turned to look at Harry, who was listening intently. "The ability to speak Parseltongue, the serpent's language, is a very rare gift, one I had definitely not expected you to have."

Harry scuffled his shoe slightly against the dirt. "Is it inherited? Through families?" he asked hesitantly.

Tom studied Harry closely. "Parseltongue is indeed a hereditary trait," Tom replied but Harry could sense an indecipherable meaning behind his words, "but I do believe that it can be passed on through other extraordinary magical means."

"Oh," Harry said. He knew nothing about his family nor birth parents; everything he had known ever since he was little was the orphanage and the old matron. He wondered if they had been magical, and why he had been abandoned there since he was young. The only thing the matron had ever mentioned about his past was that he'd been left on the doorstep one night with no explanation whatsoever of how he ever got there. A simple letter had been left tucked in his blankets with his name _Harry_ scrawled on top, and with few meager pound notes inside. Harry shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts.

"Can I try to make it grow flowers?" Harry said randomly, abruptly. It was more to change the topic than anything, and even if it was the first thing that popped into his mind it didn't seem like such a bad idea. Tom raised a brow.

"If it is within the tree's capabilities to cater your childish fantasies, perhaps" he replied smoothly. Harry eyed Tom uncertainly and gave an audible sniff but he turned back to the wyr tree. He was certain there was a jibe there somewhere, but he hadn't managed to catch the whole sentence.

"All I need to do is say it in Parseltongue right?" Harry said again self-consciously. Tom didn't reply but he inclined his head as if telling Harry to go on.

Harry glanced at the tree, feeling apprehensive. Tom had said he had the gift, but he had no idea whatsoever _how_ to speak in Parseltongue. He hadn't asked Tom, because Tom had once more made it seem like something unquestionable that he ought to know seeing as he could somehow understand Parseltongue; but it left Harry feeling more confused than ever. He looked at Tom for guidance, but Tom was staring at the sky with an air of boredom. Harry gave another rebellious sniff. He knew Tom was actually watching him out of the corner of his eye, probably waiting to be entertained. Harry turned back to the tree determinedly. If Parseltongue sounded like English surely speaking it would be just the same…?

Feeling rather ridiculous Harry decided to try all the same. "Plleeeasssee grow floweerrrssss" Harry began, taking care to emphasize on each 's' and hiss them as empathically as he could. Harry paused, wondering if he had gotten in right. He looked up at the tree but it remained the same as ever. It occurred to him he might have spoken the right language but as Tom would put it, it was 'beyond the tree's capabilities to entertain his fantasies', before a slight snort to his left alerted him to the contrary.

"Well you never taught me how to do it" Harry huffed almost accusingly.

Tom eyed him with amusement. "I assumed it was something straightforward enough without requiring further guidance."

Harry pursed his lips in mild annoyance and returned to the tree at Tom's refusal to help. "Grow flowers! Grow more leaves! Roots! Whatever" Harry ordered the tree as he stabbed a finger in its general direction.

Tom watched him as though he was fast losing interest in the situation. "If you've finished talking to the tree I propose we begin with some actual magic," he said, motioning as if he were prepared to leave. Harry however stubbornly stood his ground. He envisioned a snake twined around the trunk instead of wiry bark, and quite abruptly a different hiss left his lips.

At his words, overhead in the treetops, something sparkled to life, faint yet bright as it spread through the leaves like dots of stars. A few flowers fluttered to the ground, where Harry gave a whoop of delight. Tom had paused in his steps when he heard the snake's language slip easily from Harry's tongue. When Harry saw him turn around to watch, he cracked a wide grin and skipped over to Tom, his eyes dancing with merriment. The smug ' _see that?'_ was all but spoken even though Harry had yet to open his mouth.

"Let's begin with some _actual_ magic now" Harry agreed instead, his emerald eyes twinkling with mirth.

xXx

They retired back into the house for beginning Harry's first lesson in magic. Upon crossing the threshold however, Harry had quickly ducked in and sprawled out over the floor automatically, pretending the high-back chair standing in front of him was invisible. Tom raised a brow at that but chose to remain silent and claimed his own seat on the other side of the small room. With a careless flourish of his hand the low coffee table vanished, drawing a sound of awe from Harry.

"I have been thinking" Tom began when it was done. Harry was already listening with full attention. "It would be best if we should start with one of the simpler spells that can be performed without a wand, instead of following the usual curriculum sequence."

"A wand?" Harry asked. His emerald eyes had been fixed on Tom eagerly the moment he began speaking. "Do you need one to perform magic?"

"Most wizards do" Tom said in explanation, "but advanced forms of magic require the user to cast spells wandlessly. The generation of wizards produced nowadays is generally incompetent, but I would expect you to do much better. After all you _are_ my student." There was a flicker of a smile on his face before he turned back to Harry. "Tell me Harry, what forms of magic have you been mostly able to control consciously?"

Harry frowned as he mulled over his options. "I can turn out lights with a single thought" he said. "Usually that never goes wrong. Sometimes I get to vault over higher walls."

"Sometimes," Tom repeated the word, phrasing it as he would a question. Harry grinned sheepishly.

"Sometimes," Harry confirmed. "When I don't succeed, I starfish into the wall."

Tom's lips curled into a wry smile. He gestured for Harry to continue, but Harry had run out of ideas. "I don't think there's much else than that" Harry said uncertainly. He wasn't sure which was magic and which wasn't anymore. He could run fast, he could hide well. Sometimes they said his swiftness had an unnatural quality to it, but Harry assumed what they said was simply ludicrous. Surely magic couldn't be responsible for every single good quality he had! Magic aside, he was born like everyone else with _some_ more, well - natural talents.

Tom seemed to be able to read his mind; there was a light of understanding in his eyes. "In other words your power lashes out in bidding of your will" Tom said at length. "What you perform is not merely blasts of accidental magic. Your conscious mind wills it, and your magic obeys – sometimes in the exact way you want it to, others not."

"That's a good thing right?" Harry said.

Tom gave non-committal hum. "It depends" he replied. "If you refine that skill, it could potentially be a very dangerous weapon to have. Wandless magic will come more naturally to you, but you might easily lose your hold over your magic, especially if your emotions run wild. You have more power without restrictions, but without control you lose that power. It's a circle all around."

Harry watched Tom closely, but Tom remained silent for a while, deep in thought. Harry didn't dare interrupt lest he disrupted an important line of thinking. He sat quietly on the floor watching the yellow lamp above their heads flicker slightly every few seconds. He wondered if he would be able to turn it off as simply as he had done the others.

Barely had the thought crossed his mind when it happened. The light went out with a loud _'pop'_ causing Harry himself to jump, and they were thrown into a haze of darkness.

"Sorry, sorry!" Harry said from the floor as he scrambled to get up. Tom merely waved a dismissive hand and the lights flickered back into existence once more. Harry grimaced as if expecting an outburst from Tom, but when the elder of the pair turned around Tom was wearing a smile, as if he'd finally figured out a piece of a puzzle.

Tom knew just exactly where they would begin.

xXx

…

Tom was only a shadow of himself. By all rights he shouldn't have existed; he should have been naught but an insubstantial spirit, powerless and hapless, unable to do a thing save biding his time and waiting for someone to find him. But at the split second when the rush of green light cast by his own wand backfired at him, he made a decision. Becoming human was a huge step backwards from everything he'd managed to accomplish, but he realized that without a body he would be rendered even more helpless than before.

Words could craft the world, he knew. He had the power of knowledge, and he knew how to get what he wanted. Between immortality and magic, he had chosen his path swiftly all those years ago. He named himself Tom, because that was all his other persona was, and now it was all he had become. But whilst he was still biding his time, an open path had just presented itself.

By a cruel twist of fate, Harry Potter the boy who had become his downfall was delivered into his hands. Not as a wronged wizard seeking revenge for his parents, not as the Golden Boy Dumbledore had doubtless wished to craft, but as an innocent orphan boy, raised in all similar conditions as he himself had been. Growing up in Wool's orphanage, shunted for his magical abilities, undiscovered and unknown for who he was. That part of Harry's life drew him in, he supposed. It intrigued him to draw parallels of both their lives and watch them diverge into a million possibilities.

Like him, Harry already had control over his magic despite his young age. And because both of them had always been in control, the idea of magic wasn't such an incongruous thought as it might have been to Muggles.

But yet Harry was remarkably different. Tom Riddle had craved for power. He regarded the Muggles as lesser beings and he relished the feeling of unleashing his magic on them. He didn't _want_ to fit into their system of hierarchy because he knew he was already top of them all. Then there was Harry, who had allowed _them_ to use him to suit their purposes. Harry became their thief, and while he was disgusted at the notion Tom wondered just how good the boy had become.

It was as if their paths were destined to intertwine as such. Ironically, the one who had caused his downfall was the one Tom believed would unknowingly aid restore his powers. Harry was a trained thief. He spoke Parseltongue. He had an uncommonly powerful aura hidden inside him, waiting to be unleashed. That had been one of the reasons that had drawn Tom over, but whatever he had expected he'd never thought he would stumble across the Boy-Who-Lived, much less in the form of a perfect weapon waiting to be shaped.

It would be far too easy to end it, Tom mused as he walked past the sleeping form of Harry, worn and tired out on the floor. But it would be waste to do as such, he was still far from regaining his powers, and for that he would require the boy. Tom walked over to the window where it had misted over from the cold. He lifted a finger and idly drew a symbol over the glass. It was a rune that could only be activated in Parseltongue.

Tom wasn't going to activate it anytime soon, but he knew someone who could.

Harry was but a temporary weapon, it was inevitable that they would face each other across the battlefield sooner or later, especially when the boy left for Hogwarts.

But perhaps by then, his weapon's uses would already be expired.

 **A/N: In all honesty, this chapter was completely pre-written. I just added a few more touches. Sorry, uni life is getting really hectic.**

 **That aside, I really appreciate all of your feedback and sweet, amazing reviews. They really brightened my day, thank you so much! :p Here's a special shout out to** _xalitude, Shadows guide D, Phoenixx Rising and all guests. **Thank you so much for reviewing! I'm glad you guys liked the idea. :P**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Many thanks for your amazing reviews. They gave me something to smile about when I thought all I had to look forwards to was an endless day of studying. I've reread them countless times. Seriously, my heartfelt gratitude to all of you.**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Harry awoke sometime past midnight.

For a moment he blinked, disorientated by the unfamiliar surroundings. Night vision had never been his strong point, especially when his eyesight was getting worse and worse each day. He squinted in the dark and managed to make out the silhouette of a high-backed chair, but in the end it was the small shaft of light filtering through the window that did the trick. He was still in Middle Street – or more accurately, Tom's house.

Harry yawned and stretched himself. He couldn't remember falling asleep at all; last he remembered Tom had left him to practice enlarging and cracking objects by wandless magic. Wands, for Harry was still a difficult concept to grasp. He couldn't imagine relying on a piece of stick to perform every single bit of magic in his life; it sounded remarkably unsafe and impractical. However Tom had told him that for more precise and powerful spells he would eventually require one, to which Harry simply replied that Tom could help him choose whichever he thought suited Harry best. After all Tom was the only wizard he knew so far, and he trusted the other's judgement. Tom however had looked distinctly amused at that.

Harry got to his feet with some difficulty. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to sleep so much, and he was reluctant to leave that last vestige of comfort. But when another rippling silver light reflected through the tiny window, Harry's curiousity got the better of him, and he shrugged on his jacket and stumbled his way to the door.

The night air was bitingly cold, but rather than deterring him, Harry found the chill a refreshing change. He stepped out into the open, careful to close the door silently behind – but it turned out that there was no need. Tom was sitting below the shades of the Wyr Tree, which was currently grown to its full height. Harry noted that the yellow sparks dotting its leaves were still there and felt distinctly pleased.

Tom gave no indication to having heard Harry, but the younger boy knew that his presence had been sensed. He walked over wordlessly and sat down beside Tom, tilting his head upwards to study the vast sky as he did so. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight of the dark blue canvas against the glittering silver leaves of the tree. It was beautiful.

Presently he turned his head to chance a look at the other.

"You don't sleep?" Harry was the first to offer a start to conversation. Tom's eyes shifted slightly to meet Harry's before he continued to study the skies, but he didn't reply. Harry shrugged.

"I'm used to little sleep anyway, so I can keep you company," the younger boy said, and he settled himself more comfortably against the tree bark. This time there was a faint sound of amusement from Tom.

"Who said I wanted company?" the elder of the pair said, not unkindly – but it was tinged with something almost curious. Harry looked at him and grinned as if it were obvious.

"You and Scrooge, you're all the same," Harry said in reply, shaking his head as if it were obvious. A mild crease appeared between Tom's eyebrows as he frowned, but he didn't say anything else to contradict the fact.

"So let's talk about you," Harry ventured into the silence. "You've practically known all my secrets and I hardly know anything about you. Can't say that's fair is it?" When Tom made no move to indulge him he leaned in closer to study Tom's face as if he could somehow decipher the truth by the action. "Are you the Wizard police?" he guessed wildly. "You're undercover, isn't that it? That's why you just moved in this house."

Tom made no comment, but his eyebrow raised slightly at the suggestion. Harry took it as a discouraging sign. "Is there no such thing as a wizard police then?" he said.

"There is," Tom answered this time. He turned to face Harry once more, and there was something strange about his dark green eyes as he studied Harry closely even though he flashed the other a light-hearted smile. "But you couldn't be further from the truth."

"So you're what? A criminal in hiding?" Harry sarcastically.

Tom pretended to pause, then shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry make a face. "Right, like I would believe that."

Tom gave no response to that. He knew that Harry was trying to search for something that would prove the fact wrong but failing quickly. After all they hadn't met each other long enough to know that much, even though Tom had been keeping an eye on Harry longer than the boy knew. Half a minute's worth of silence fell between them, with Harry staring determinedly at Tom's face as though waiting for him to give up the game. But even before he mastered Occlumency Tom had been a natural at controlling his facial expressions, and nothing about his posture gave Harry any clues.

Eventually Harry seemed to finally come to the conclusion that Tom wasn't lying, and he fell backwards with a thump against the Wyr Tree.

"You're really a criminal in hiding?" he said, his voice sounding faint to the point of disbelieving. Tom gave Harry a sidelong disinterested glance.

"Disappointed?" he returned, smoothly. Harry immediately scrambled back to resume his normal position.

"No, it's not that!" Harry denied vehemently. "Well, technically speaking I'm also a criminal, er – so to speak. It's nothing wrong. I mean, we're obviously in the wrong, but it's because of… pressurizing circumstances," Harry fumbled hastily, borrowing another word out of Scrooge's dictionary as he did.

Tom arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Fair enough," he replied. His voice was completely devoid of amusement.

He could tell Harry wasn't completely comfortable with that though, but for once the boy chose to be contented with shuffling about uneasily and throwing the odd look at him, which bordered on despairing. Tom decided to let the boy's internal torture go on a little while longer before indulging him.

"Just ask the question," he said flatly. "I won't bite."

Won't, not can't. Tom hid a smirk when Harry seemed to catch on the same thing, but the boy immediately seized on the chance regardless.

"What did you do?" the question burst out from Harry with the force of his curiousity.

Tom pretended to mull over the question. All the while he felt Harry's green-eyed gaze trained on his face, never leaving him for an instant. When he decided that Harry's patience was at its fraying point, he complied, "I have a different view of how things should be done from the rest of wizarding population," he said quietly. His eyes shifted to meet Harry's, holding them in his stare. "Neither of us can accept the other, so one of us has to go."

The implication of his words ran deeper beyond Harry's comprehension. It wouldn't be only until years later when Harry would realize the significance behind them, too late. As it was Harry only looked at Tom, as if trying his best to understand for Tom's sake. In the end he frowned and sat back. It was if there were too many questions which he had no idea whatsoever how to phrase.

"I'm guessing it's the kind of thing I'll understand better in ten years' time?" Harry said dryly. It was one of the things he'd learnt from Scrooge.

Tom gave him a smirk-smile. If he was surprised at Harry's remark he didn't let it show.

"I can see Scrooge taught you a number of useful things," he replied instead.

…

Harry left Middle Street a little after dawn.

The night had been clear and Tom had decided to teach him about Astronomy. It soon became apparent however that Harry was not as adept with numbers and figures as he was at breaking into houses, but Tom did not relent. It seemed to him that once he had made the effort of teaching Harry the particular subject, Harry had to become a master in it. He did not tolerate mistakes and made Harry draw and re-draw charts over and over again until he got down some of the basics perfectly. After Harry had fallen asleep while drawing his third perfect chart, Tom had let him be.

Harry did not see Tom when he awoke automatically an hour before sunrise, so he crept out of the front door and made his way to Mr. Higgin's quickly. He repeated his every day routine then, delivering milk to each house on the list before dashing back to the orphanage. As usual he left Tom's house for the last (the Wyr Tree was no longer in sight, and neither was Tom). Then Harry slipped through the broken fence leading to Wool's, replaced it and covered the gap with ivy, snuck upstairs quietly and burrowed himself beneath the thin blanket as he waited for the Nurse to arrive and snap at them to wake up.

By the time he lay down, he was worn out from all the morning exercise. Above all of that his arm had begun throbbing again, and Harry attributed it to the fact that he'd been drawing countless charts last night by Tom's orders. He could only hope there weren't any essays due later today.

He turned around and cracked an eyelid to read the clock on the mantelpiece, but failed to do so with his glasses lying just out of reach. Judging by the light slipping through the crack, he deduced it was getting late and he burrowed himself deeper into his pillow with a soft groan. He was asleep within seconds.

Unknown to him, the youngest boy lying at the end of the row was feigning sleep. All the while he'd been watching Harry when he returned. But he wasn't going to mention anything to _Arrow_ 's face. No, the information he had was for the leaders alone.

…

* * *

-X-

They decided to make their move on the third night. After all the leaders weren't patient people, and they'd had spies watching Harry's moves every evening and dawn. They knew his schedule perfectly well and the routes he took. All they needed was to set up an ambush and ensure he was cornered properly this time. After all they above all people understood Harry's capability to escape impossible situations too well.

Jack had set up the point of ambush at the narrow alley which led from the short-cut through the broken wire-fence. It was the route Harry always used to enter the back alley of Middle Street from Wool's. They'd had a few younger boys follow Harry subtly, but then they'd always been forced to turn back midway – either because Harry vaulted over a wall they couldn't manage and lost sight of the other boy quickly, or it was through an open area where they couldn't follow Harry undetected. But it didn't matter that much – Jack knew that Harry was working for Higgins, and for Harry to reach the milkman's place he needed to pass through the area anyway. He was confident he would be able to catch Arrow.

There were seven of them in total: Rick and Flint who were the largest among their group were positioned further behind in the shadows to block off Harry's path, three others who would form the circle around their prey, and Jack himself pressed against the other side of the wall, the first one in charge of grabbing Harry. They'd talked it through – no potentially crippling blows were allowed, as they still wanted Arrow in their service – but their main mission was to instill 'fear and respect', as Jack liked to put it. Harry wouldn't think twice about double-crossing them or leaving as he pleased next time.

It was half past midnight as they stood crouched in position, waiting for Harry to arrive. Jack frowned. Roy had informed them with absolute certainty that Harry always left the orphanage by twelve, after the Nurse had retired to bed. He should have arrived by now.

Still the night remained as silent as ever. Behind him he heard Flint shift uncomfortably, and he had to bite back a sharp order that sprang to his tongue. Any movement from them would give the game away. Arrow always had an uncanny ability to sense danger and flee.

He could tell, however, that the rest of the boys were also getting anxious; they were tired of hovering around in the cold night aimlessly. Jack gritted his teeth in silence. If Harry didn't show up, Roy was definitely going to pay.

Another rustle of movement jolted him back to his senses, and Jack was about give in and snap at Flint to _be quiet_ – stealth be damned – when he noticed that the sound wasn't coming from Flint's position, but from behind the wall. He pressed an ear against the brick and listened closely. Dimly he could make out the light footfalls, and they were drawing nearer and nearer to where he stood. A predatory grin stole across his features. So Roy's information had been accurate after all.

True to their predictions, a minute later a small nimble figure appeared over the edge. He hauled himself across the fence and dropped onto the other side, eerily silent, like a bat. It was a no wonder Arrow had never been caught, Jack mused. He inched a little closer to his target. It was Harry alright – jet black hair framing brilliant green eyes which scanned the shadows warily, suddenly uneasy. Doubtless Harry's instincts were telling him to run and leave the place behind, and for good reason too. Jack smirked. This time there wasn't anywhere for _Arrow_ to escape to.

Jack slipped out from his cover to come to a halt right in front of Harry. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw six figures shift into position, some stepping into view, some remaining in the shadows. Harry was caught neatly like a fly in a fly trap with nowhere to run. Jack smirked as defiant emerald eyes looked up to challenge his.

"I think we have a meeting long overdue, _Arrow."_

…

Harry stood in the middle of the gang, trapped.

He knew immediately there was little hope of escape – it had been a deliberately planned ambush. Somehow they'd known the exact time he would pass through this route, and Jack had cleverly sealed off every path left to him. The only route he could think of was the wall he'd dropped down from, but his arm was still injured from his last mission, and while he could manage the feat he didn't think he could be fast enough to shake them off.

As if confirming his thoughts, Jack grinned and rapped a knuckle against the worn brick as he spoke. "Don't bother trying the wall, Harry. Rick's on the other side."

Harry gritted his teeth. The option of escape was no longer available, at least for the moment. The only other one he had left was confrontation, which he never liked, mainly because he rarely ever got through them unscathed. His eyes darted to survey his surroundings. He'd wager there were at least five or six of them, with Rick on the other side. Bad odds indeed.

Harry shifted his attention back to the leader and forced himself to speak in a neutral voice. "So. What's this about?"

Jack laughed, perhaps at his audacity, or maybe it was just another flaunt of power. "I'm sure you can gather a faint idea, Harry." He shrugged. "It hardly looks like we're up to chatting over tea, do we?"

There was a faint noise of laughter from the others. Harry opened his mouth to snap back a snarky retort, but at the moment Flint crept up behind him and grabbed his injured arm. He twisted it viciously behind his back, earning a sharp cry of pain from Harry. Jack moved forwards as planned, but in the next moment Flint had abruptly let go of Harry as though he were burned, and the larger boy fell backwards as if he'd been pushed by an invisible force.

That paused Jack for a moment, but not for long. Before Harry had a chance to recover, he grabbed the younger boy by the collar, drew back and punched him fully in the face. Harry fell back hard against the ground. Jack grinned. It wasn't an unfamiliar scene – this was what Harry used to be before he approached the boy and turned him into Arrow. He wasn't about to let Harry walk off like that so simply. It was time Harry remembered who he was before Jack took him in.

But years of breaking into houses and experiences of the occasional confrontation had toughened Harry considerably, and instead of recoiling away like he might have done before – Harry threw out his legs in a scissor-kick. It caught Jack off balance, causing the elder boy to stumble backwards slightly. Harry immediately leapt at the opportunity by striking out with a knee-kick while landing lightly back on his feet in one fluid motion.

If Jack had been alone, Harry might have won – but there were five other boys Harry couldn't account for. Harry ducked down and narrowly dodged a punch to the side of his head, but another blow grazed his ribs and he stumbled backwards, winded. Out of years of honed instinct Harry threw himself to the ground and rolled away from Rick, but another boy caught him neatly and threw him back in the circle.

Jack was the first to advance, with a well-aimed kick to his ribs. Pain exploded across his chest, and Harry had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from crying out. He would not give the leader the satisfaction. Instead Harry immediately retaliated with an elbow strike of his own, but in doing so he made his fatal mistake of not breaking through the circle when he had the chance. The blow glanced of Jack's shoulder, doubtless leaving a nasty bruise – but it only served to anger the boy more than anything.

The circle tightened around Harry, and all of a sudden they were all on him. Harry tried his best to deflect the incoming blows, but with a chilling flash of realization he noticed that he was well and truly cornered now.

He wasn't even been aware that he'd fallen to the ground until he tasted dust on his tongue, along with the coppery tang of blood. He threw his arms over his head in a vain attempt to shield himself. Another sharp blow to his ribs knocked all the air out of his lungs. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His brain was whirring through long-hour lessons, trying desperately to dredge up any kind of information Tom had told him before. The world darkened and blurred into blots of colors. He had to clear his mind, Tom had said. Magic was all about the envisioning. But how was he supposed to clear his mind when pain was occupying every fibre of his being?

He wanted them to stop. He wanted all of them to be flung away from him so badly. He couldn't breathe. He had no time to draw breath between each gasp of agony. But how? He had been through it many times before, but he'd thought he'd put all of those behind him. He thought if he'd joined them he wouldn't be hurt. But there was magic in him – and Tom, Tom understood him for what he really was. Tom knew the reason behind all of it – the confusion, the unnatural qualities he had where no one else seemed to comprehend. Tom was the first person to tell him who he really was. He couldn't give that up.

It was as if his thoughts had summoned the other.

Suddenly, the dark narrow alley was filled with a strange shimmer of light. It morphed into a spiraling glow like the one around the Wyr Tree. And despite the haze of pain clouding his mind, Harry was the first to realize what was going to happen a split second before it actually did. The light blurred into a whirl of silvery gold, drawing alarmed cries from the others - and an invisible sheer, powerful force lashed out against his attackers. They barely managed to cry out before all six of them were abruptly thrown into the air as they were blasted away by a burst of raw magic.

Only Jack remained standing in his position, when the figure approached them slowly. All previous arrogance was drained from his face, and he was shaking uncontrollably.

The man was tall and hooded, dressed in flowing dark robes that almost touched the ground. His skin was pale, almost translucent – but the most vivid thing about him was his eyes: they were a furious, piercing _crimson_ , saturated with hell's fire from a thousand murders.

His hands were empty, but when he raised his right hand again, Jack suddenly felt icy fingers sneaking around his throat. Terror seized him when they slowly began to crush him, curling tighter and tighter around his neck, unrelinquishing, unrelenting. Jack's own hands flew to pry away the invisible force desperately, but his fingers only met thin air.

The pressure built up into a crescendo of agony, crushing his windpipe, choking off any source of air. He felt his eyes pop at the sheer force of it. Fire licked at his lungs, writhing up his throat like acid. He screamed soundlessly – kicking, flailing and thrashing out in a wild direction to relieve the pain, but to no avail, not even noticing that he had been lifted up into the air and was currently at the dark stranger's eye level.

" _Tom_ – stop it!"

The figure in black ignored Harry's call completely, but continued to squeeze the life out of the elder boy. But then somehow Harry managed to crawl to his feet. With all his remaining strength he hurled himself at the wizard, and with a desperate lunge he grabbed Tom's outstretched arm and flung it away roughly.

For a brief second, Jack hung suspended in mid-air, his eyes rolling like a limp puppet. Then he was thrown bodily to the floor, joining the rest of his gang, unconscious.

Silence rang, loud and horribly deafening in their ears. Tom's livid gaze turned downwards and clashed with Harry's emerald ones. And for the first time since they'd met, Harry stepped back involuntarily. He didn't say anything, but his eyes betrayed it all - the icy fist of fear clutched around his heart. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding a terrible rhythm in his ribcage. Bile rose to his throat. This was magic, he thought. This was the magic he'd wanted to learn – the magic that almost killed a boy.

Tom seemed to realize what was happening, and he muttered a curse before turning away. He turned back a moment later – his eyes were back to their normal shade of dark green. But Harry knew what he'd seen, and he had witnessed what Tom had done to Jack.

"Harry," Tom spoke quietly.

He had made no move to step forwards, but Harry flinched visibly at his call.

"Harry, look at me," Tom said again, forcefully, demanding. The inflection skipping across his tone when he said the other's name going unnoticed by both.

The younger boy refused to meet his gaze. He was staring unseeingly at a spot in front of Tom, where he knew Jack had been thrashing in the air a moment ago. There was a moment of tense silence, as if the slightest movement of any of them would call down lightning from the skies and strike them where they stood. Then Harry shook his head slightly, as if regaining his senses. He took one last fleeting look at Tom, his expression unreadable, and then he was gone, running away from the scene and melting quickly into the night.

…

 **A/N: Was this expected, or unexpected? I would love to know your reactions. Hope to hear from you soon :p please leave a review below!**


	6. Chapter 6

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

 **Thank you** _Gothazon, Turnpike, G, PhoenxxRising, Alpha Rynn and guests._ **This chapter is for you! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 6:**

He hadn't even been conscious of where he was heading to. It wasn't only when he stopped, each breath searing at his throat that he recognized the door before him.

He couldn't remember knocking on the door at all, but he must have – because when the door was suddenly flung open Harry found his hand sliding from the door knob to hang limply by his side.

"By the gods," a familiar voice exclaimed, both fierce yet comforting at the same time. "What on earth happened to you?"

Harry raised his head tiredly to look at the speaker. The bright glow from the lamp inside made it hard for him to see properly, but Harry would have known his loud voice anywhere. There was a distinctive rough and scratchy quality to it.

"Scrooge," he mumbled, sounding almost as surprised as Scrooge was.

The sound of his voice seemed to shake Scrooge out of his stupor, and without another word he stepped aside and quickly ushered Harry in. The familiar sight of the topsy-turvy living room seemed to comfort Harry somewhat, and slowly Harry dragged himself and sat heavily on his customary spot – the upside-down coffee table. Scrooge grabbed the first-aid box he'd left by the window after Harry's last visit and sat himself directly across Harry.

"Shirt, off," he ordered.

But instead of complying Harry shook his head wordlessly. His eyes seemed to regain little of their focus when they landed on Scrooge, but then he swallowed and simply sat there, staring hard at the patterns of a torn cushion case. Scrooge withdrew slightly, growing a bit alarmed by Harry's demeanor. He eyed Harry warily and abruptly raised four fingers into the air.

"What's this?!" he demanded aggressively, waving the appendages in Harry's face.

Harry dragged his eyes with much effort to focus on the waving fingers. "Your hand," he muttered despondently.

Scrooge dropped his hand. "Alright, that's it," he said. "We're going to the hospital."

Harry shook his head again, more vigorously this time. He raised his eyes and met Scrooge's own evenly. There was a strange almost shattered look in the boy's eyes when he did, which compelled Scrooge to drop the four fingers he'd been holding up in front of Harry, and his expression softened somewhat.

"Okay boy, out with it," Scrooge said crisply, as if his matter-of-fact tone could somehow restore a semblance of normalcy to the atmosphere. "Start from the beginning."

"You were right all the while," Harry said without further prompting. It was hardly the opening Scrooge was looking for – no clarification of the situation for instance, but he wisely chose not to interrupt. "I shouldn't have agreed to anything. I even quit because he asked me to. I thought it was all worth it. I thought I knew what it was all about." Then just as suddenly as he began, Harry stopped. It could have been simply four unrelated sentences strung together. Harry leaned down and rubbed his eyes with his hands. Scrooge noticed that they were littered with cuts and bruises.

"I… I simply assumed we were the same," Harry finished abruptly, silently, looking at Scrooge in a sort of desperation, as if the older man could somehow understand what he was going through. Scrooge only stared back at him, offering no words. For a long moment Harry continued to hold him in that stare, then the younger boy dropped his gaze and hung his head with a soft groan.

"Of course, you can't understand," Harry said, dejectedly, voicing out both of their thoughts.

Scrooge cleared his throat. He wanted to say, "Of course I bloody well don't if you speak in riddles like that!" but he noted the slouch of Harry's shoulders, defeated and miserable, and despite the fact that tact had never been his better points, Scrooge withheld the urge and instead lowered his gaze to the first-aid kit in his lap.

"Best get the physical injuries out of the way first then," he said finally in a gruff voice. "You can sleep on the couch."

…

Harry slept at Scrooge's house that night. By some effort Scrooge had managed to turn back the upside-down couch to its rightful position. It was broken and one of the cushions was missing, but Harry said nothing. He was too battered and exhausted from the night's events to notice anything.

A shaft of the streetlight filtered in from the window directly above Harry and burned against his eyes. In his semi-conscious state he could make out strange patterns dancing across the inside of his eyelids when the odd car passed by. He would listen closely for the sound of an engine and wonder idly if he'd imagined it.

He woke up and drifted off irregularly, and on the other side of the room he could hear Scrooge shifting around and muttering a curse under his breath when he thought Harry wasn't listening.

Sometime in the night a shadow came and the red and yellow phosphenes disappeared from sight. He was so used to the pain that he barely noticed it, but at one point the ache in his body left him completely. Before he knew it, the sweetness of that relief eased the crease in his brow, and he sank gratefully deep into the depths of pitch blackness.

…

-X-

Harry's eyes snapped open the moment a shaft of blinding sunlight wandered in through the half-open window. He groaned and shifted to block out the offending light even though it brought a sense of comforting warmth. Then a thought struck Harry and he bolted upright with a jolt, his heart hammering wildly in his ribcage.

His eyes shot over to read the old clock Scrooge had repaired the day before. It was almost seven.

Without hesitation Harry leapt from his position on the couch and bolted for the door. In his haste he shut it a little louder than usual but Scrooge's snores never ceased. He barely gave himself enough time to put on his shoes before he was running full-pelt, the deepening autumn wind biting at his skin. Withering grass and dilapidated cottages and huts whizzed by him in a blur. He had only room for one thought – and that was reaching Mr. Higgin's place.

He was so preoccupied that he barely noticed when he passed by the playground with the broken fence where he'd been ambushed the night before. Less than two minutes later he was already running up the steps to Mr. Higgin's backdoor, his fist raised to hammer against wood - when out of the blue, an arm reached out and caught his wrist in a vice-like grip.

Harry spun round quickly, his mouth already opening to form an apology – but then he realized who it was. His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed hard.

"Tom," he greeted quietly. His voice sounded nothing like his own.

Tom had been standing behind the wall off to the side, and in his haste Harry hadn't even seen the other. He was still dressed in the same dark robes as last night, but there was something different about his face. It might have been the light, but he seemed… paler somehow. Tom's eyes however were the same familiar shade of dark green, and they appraised him for a moment before he let go of Harry's hand. "Harry," Tom returned, seemingly easily, flawlessly.

Harry tore his gaze away. In an instant all his words had died in his throat. He didn't know what to think of the other anymore. He cast his eyes around, trying to find anything to lighten the atmosphere and to divert that searching stare away from him. "Since you're already here, I won't need to drop by Middle Street then," Harry said finally. It was the only relevant thing he could think of saying, as if Tom was just another name he had to cross off the delivery list.

Harry turned away and made to climb the last few steps up to Mr. Higgin's door, but Tom started speaking again.

"Higgins isn't in," the elder of the pair said casually. "He's already back in town."

Harry paused in his steps and this unexpected news. He turned to face Tom. "How would you know that?" he said suspiciously.

Tom didn't look the least bit fazed at Harry's tone. "Magic," he deadpanned instead. It didn't look like Tom was joking. Inexplicably Harry felt a sense of annoyance well up in him and he moved forwards to knock on the door all the same – but he soon realized that Mr. Higgin's boots were missing, which meant that the milkman really wasn't in.

"Thanks for that gem of trust," Tom drawled, noting his reaction.

Harry thinned his lips in irritation. He made to say something, then thought the better of it and started to walk away. There was nothing left between them anyway. He couldn't quite come to terms with yesterday night, and until he sorted everything out he'd vowed to himself to stay away. But in the end he'd barely taken a step when Tom's hand clamped down on his shoulder, and this time Tom's voice turned a visible shade harder.

"I haven't finished with you yet."

"What was that you wanted me to do for you in return?" Harry shot back instead, without pause. The words had left his mouth barely a second after Tom finished. Harry turned back to face Tom fully. The wizard only stared back at him, hooded green eyes betraying nothing. "You're here to extort the price aren't you?" Harry continued, challenging. He knew he was only going to land himself in greater trouble but he couldn't care less at the time. "Well then, go on, name it. That was the only reason you cared to start all of this, didn't you?"

"Why did you run?" Tom asked instead, flatly.

"Why didn't you stop?" Harry returned the question defiantly. "How long were you planning to draw it out? Until he was strangled to death?"

Tom tilted his head sideways, his razor sharp green eyes pinning Harry to the spot, refusing to let him move even an inch. "Would it have mattered to you if I did?"

The unexpected retort stumped Harry. He blinked, the words caught in his throat. Tom didn't even seem to find anything wrong with the situation. He hadn't even formed an excuse. He hadn't even said it was for self-defense or something, and to think a small part of Harry might have accepted it if Tom had actually tried to explain his actions. Tom always had a good reason for whatever he did; it was one of the things Harry had been certain about despite only knowing the other for a short time. And now instead, he was met with this. It wasn't even indifference. Tom was completely missing the _point._

For a moment he was so stunned he didn't even know what to say in reply. But when Tom remained standing before him, waiting for his answer, Harry looked down at his boots and tried to swallow back the icy feeling burning in down his throat.

"Yes," he managed to say, or mumble, there was hardly a difference for him now. All his indignance had left him at that point. It wasn't even about Jack at all. "Even more so, because that would make you a killer," Harry finished bluntly.

The ground was as still and silent as ever, no flecks of first snow, no scurrying animals – nothing to distract him from their conversation. Harry stubbornly resumed his gaze at the unmoving floor.

"And that matters to you?" Tom asked, finally. His tone was unreadable.

Harry didn't reply. Everything he thought he'd known about Tom had shifted and spun out of his grasps. He'd run out of any words.

Tom's eyes softened fractionally, and he released the grip he held over Harry.

"I'll see you later, Harry," he said. And just like that, Tom abruptly turned and left quietly, walking out through the low gate which hung open.

Harry watched him disappear round the bend, and for the life of him he couldn't quite place the strange hollow feeling in his heart.

…

It had never been an accident.

Tom never did anything without purpose, and while he'd given in to his roiling hatred towards the impetuous worthless _Muggles,_ even his rage had been carefully controlled.

There was much he wanted from Harry, and even more that he wanted to know. How had the boy survived his attack almost a full decade ago, and why did it leave a link between their minds. But even more importantly Tom needed to know the boy's character, and what it would take to persuade Harry's mind to unconsciously believe in the shade of grey between black and white worlds.

At first the boy had seemed uncomfortable at admitting to thievery, which meant that despite Harry's actions the boy had felt some twinge of guilt at thieving; and then the boy had become wary and almost… disappointed when Tom wordlessly admitted to being a 'criminal' on the run. It seemed to Tom that Harry had a strong sense of morality despite the circumstances he'd been raised in. Tom couldn't have that. A solid ground could never be built on lies alone.

So he showed Harry the truth. He let Harry witness part of what he was capable of, part of what he truly believed in. He wanted Harry to acknowledge that. Even if the step of acceptance was too wide a gap as of yet, Tom wanted to build the foundations of Harry's belief. If he could reach the point where Harry knew his views yet chose not to act against him, that in itself was already an extent of understanding.

But then the boy ran. Before the mind link he probably wouldn't have understood why Harry had acted the way he did, but he sensed Harry's fear. Tom supposed it made some shred of sense. Even if he'd intervened to ironically protect the boy, the weak feared power. It had always been that way. Tom knew he needed to give Harry a sense of security: by teaching him his harness his own powers, nurturing Harry's independent streak, and by doing so Harry would learn that Tom's powers weren't to be directed at him.

Even if it irked him, Tom decided to leave the boy alone for the next few days. Even that evening, he'd seen the boy take the long route back from school, passing Middle Street, and many times he'd seen the boy linger uncertainly at the junction before finally still turning away. But Tom could wait. There was nowhere else for Harry to turn to; the boy would eventually return.

He'd waited for eight years, after all, biding his time. He could wait a little longer.

-X-

…

Harry was no longer harassed by the other boys ever since the incident by the playground.

Nobody ever brought it up, but it remained certain that everyone remembered what had transpired quite clearly. Even their form teacher had noticed the subtle change in the boys' behavior, and while she had tried to remain optimistic about the whole situation (there were considerably less provoked fights), it was all somewhat disconcerting. Most of the other students remained clueless about that night's events, except that Harry was supposed to 'get a lesson' from Jack, but somehow the results had turned out to be the complete opposite.

The curious thing though was that Mr. Higgins never came back from town. His house remained locked, and every time Harry had been around to hammer on the milkman's door, he was never in. After the first few days Harry no longer bothered; he spent most of his nights at Scrooge's cottage, only sneaking back to the orphanage at dawn so his absence wouldn't be noticed.

One of the nurses might have noticed something, but she kept quiet about it on the whole.

As a result of proper meals and sufficient sleep, Harry's school grades began to improve – not exaggeratedly so, as he still had yet to appreciate to point of lessons, but at least his essays were more informative than a single squiggly line. During lunchbreaks or after school hours, Harry would disappear off to Scrooge's house, only popping into the orphanage minutes before roll call and getting away as soon as he could after that.

He never visited Tom's place again, even if sometimes a part of him wanted to. Tom had nearly killed Jack, but he'd intervened on Harry's behalf, and it didn't feel right that he was ignoring the other over that. At the same time he couldn't quite get over the cold, detached and merciless persona which had been up to that point been his mentor of sorts. Harry didn't know what to do, and he didn't know what to say to Tom either, so he simply avoided the house at the end of Middle Street.

Tom had sounded certain when he'd said he would 'see Harry again', but as far as Harry was concerned the other never sought him out. He wasn't sure how he felt about that though, but much like his other problems he continued to ignore them for the time being.

It wasn't until the following Monday that he did, in fact see Tom again. Or at least, he thought he did.

It'd been almost a week since the day he'd last met the other. Harry had paid Mr. Higgins' house one last visit on the way back from school while holding out vague hopes that the milkman was in – his pay was long overdue – but instead of the milkman, Harry caught sight of two robed figures conversing in low tones in the front porch. It was the same spot where he'd been with Tom the other day.

Out of pure instinct, Harry melted back into the long late-evening shadows in the streets as he waited for them to leave. There was something sinister about their voices that told Harry that he did not want to be found. He pressed his back against the ivy-covered wall and watched them quietly. He didn't recall seeing either of them in the small town before.

From his brief glance Harry managed to note that both men were dressed in dark and flowing robes which reminded him strongly of Tom's own. He remembered wondering briefly if they were wizards too, but then they suddenly dropped their low murmur, and one of them gave a short, barking laugh.

" – filthy Squib thinks he can double-cross us!" Harry heard one of them say. Harry inched closer to hear better, but he frowned at the unfamiliar term. He suspected that he might have heard it before but its meaning evaded him for the time being.

In front of Higgins' porch the men continued to exchange a few more sentences in low tones. Harry hardly made out any more words before the second speaker raised his voice slightly and said something along the lines of, " – wonder how much he likes this place?"

"We've remained silent far too long," the other man agreed. There was a smile in his voice that made Harry's nerves rise up on end. "It's time we cooked up some excitement, or the Ministry will begin to think that we're dead and _forgotten."_

The Ministry? This time the term struck a familiar chord within Harry – it was the body that governed the magical world in Great Britain. Tom had once mentioned his 'conflicting views' with them, and Harry had privately suspected that Tom had been thrown into exile from the magical community because of that. He strained harder to listen more, his heart thudding fast in his ribcage, but there was little else to learn. The next moment, there was a strange blue light shifting across the road, and in a flash it was gone. When Harry slipped round the wall to look cautiously into the clearing, there was no one there.

He looked around, torn between confusion and uneasiness. There was no telling if they had simply teleported somewhere else, or that they were merely invisible, but Harry's instincts told him it was the former. Yet he could sense that he was still being watched.

He pretended not to notice however, and followed through his original plan and walked right up the steps to Mr. Higgin's cottage. He proceeded to hammer on the door loudly even if he knew he wouldn't be getting any response.

"Mr. Higgins!" he called. He tilted his head sideways in a show of pressing his ear towards the doorknob. And there, true to his predictions, Harry thought he saw a shadow slip quietly out from between the gates and disappear completely into the fading twilight. He made no sound to indicate he'd noticed anything out of ordinary, and moved to give the door one last shove. But his eyes weren't peering through the high window for a sign of movement from within the house – he was watching the spot where he had last seen the almost-invisible hooded figure.

There was only one other person Harry knew that could move so silently, and wore dark robes like those strangers did. The only question that bothered Harry was why Tom had bothered to listen in to their conversation at all, as if Mr. Higgins' fate concerned him?

...

 **A/N: It's been a looong time. To my credit, chapters up till 14 is complete, leaving only 15 before the first Pre-Hogwarts phase is completed.**

 **Even as I'm posting this I'm questioning my decision to post it at all. After writing so far, I'm starting to question my previous writing, and the flow, and the characters, and... ugh.**

 **Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed it, and if you did: please do review. Even if you just tell me to update or something. 'Cause it's still encouragement, innit? XP**

 **Rating systems for people unable to express themselves due to time constraints or limited vocabulary or laziness etc. :**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**

 **Till the next chapter, which will be soon! :P**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter dedicated to** _Phoenixx Rising, Owlfur, Delicious Darkness, Serna J, Mongruad, LicaSchmidt, Alpha Rynn and Scarlett Woman._ **Thank you for your encouragement and amazing reviews, I reread them multiple times :D**

DISCLAIMER: Nope, I own nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter 7:**

Reverse. Forwards. Reverse. Forwards.

The single wooden pencil on the slanted coffee table rolled to climb up the steep incline, defying all laws of gravity, before skittering downwards to the edge and repeating the process all over again. Beside the table a spoon was tinkering madly as it stirred a mug of cooled black coffee on its own. Even by the window ledge, a jar of once more brimful tin of sweets was displaying signs of disobeying all laws of science and was currently opening itself. Sweets began levitating themselves out of the jar to unwrap themselves.

Amidst all this a raven-haired boy was slouched over a worn-out couch in the living room. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, but occasionally his eyelids fluttered, and there was a tell-tale twitch of his fingers as he continued to manipulate the objects around him. There was no one around to see him anyway.

That was, until the front door banged open suddenly, announcing the arrival of a hunched-over wizened old man. That in itself produced a spontaneous effect: the tinkering of the spoon ceased abruptly, the pencil fell off the edge to the floor, and Harry reached out a hand to snatch all of the sweets out of the air before Scrooge could see their unnatural behavior.

Even if he had managed all of that in time, Harry's expression must still have betrayed something. With an air of oblivion Scrooge shut the door behind him, shrugged off his coat and moved to the fire to warm his hands, giving Harry a pause to let down his guard before speaking.

"What have you done this time?" he said in a half-resigned, half-accusatory tone.

For a moment Harry floundered around at a loss, before he slowly opened his palm to reveal three candies sitting innocently in his palm. "I ate your sweets," he confessed.

Scrooge peered closer at the candy wrappers, and his eyebrows contracted. "The caramel macchiato ones."

"I've never tasted anything better!" Harry exclaimed agreeably.

"I just bought them," Scrooge said, his tone still accusing.

"Well let's just say you have great taste. No pun intended!" Harry added the last bit in a deeper tone, mimicking Scrooge's tone to throw the older man off his course.

Scrooge continued to glare at him for a while, as if weighing the truth behind Harry's words. Then Harry grinned widely to show off his chocolate-stained teeth, and Scrooge harrumphed at the sight. The elder of the pair straightened to move off towards the fire to warm his hands, tugging off his gloves in the process. Behind him, Harry heaved a silent breath of relief.

Even if he hadn't been over to Middle Street for a week now, Harry had kept Tom's advice in heart. Unlike his attitude towards school work, he never allowed himself to slack off. Every single day he kept trying to perfect each spell Tom had taught him, pushing himself to further boundaries.

Tom once told him that it took a lot of control and willpower to windlessly perform multiple tasks at the same time. Privately Harry had taken that up as a challenge, and he had been training his mind to play up to more than three tasks at any one time. At first he had been restricted to the same motions: rolling three different objects in the same direction, then different directions. But over the course of the last week, having no new material or lessons to work with, Harry had dedicated himself harder to these practices.

It became even more useful especially since he was staying at Scrooge's house. When the older man was away, Harry could do the assigned chores without having to move an inch himself: the heavy lampstand righted itself, the rug shook itself free of dust while the broom did its spectacular job with the floor. Though he had been physically resting the whole time, the task was quite mentally trying, and Scrooge had returned to find Harry curled up fast asleep on a mysteriously repaired couch.

Harry had wanted to tell Tom about his achievements, but he just didn't. Every time he thought of forgetting the whole ambush ordeal and showing up at Tom's place again, he would remember that night when Tom had nearly strangled Jack – and he would turn around to head back his own way. It was simply down to the fact that he couldn't see Tom as the same person again.

Harry knew it had been foolhardy and childish for him to assume he had known Tom, and he didn't have the right to it – but still he felt stupidly, incomprehensibly, betrayed.

It was just as well that Scrooge's back was turned when Harry was lost in his thoughts, so he didn't see Harry's forlorn expression. It wasn't like he could understand Harry's predicament anyway.

"Was he in?" Scrooge broke both the silence and Harry's reverie with his rough scratchy voice.

Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden conversation. The words only managed to register two seconds later. Knowing he'd paused a moment too long, Harry faked a loud yawn as he tried to recollect his thoughts, before he abruptly realized that Scrooge was talking about Mr. Higgins.

"He wasn't," Harry replied easily. "They say he may be staying at town for a while."

Scrooge didn't seem very happy to hear that. "Then what about your pay?"

Harry shrugged. The sudden topic of Mr. Higgins reminded him of the conversation he'd overheard in front of the milkman's house, and not for the first time he had a strong feeling that there was a lot more going on behind the men's words that he understood. He turned to Scrooge, lips parted to speak, but at the last minute turned away and stared into the fire instead. The men had been wizards, he was certain of it; in which case Scrooge would understand even less of their conversation then he did. The only person that might have guessed what the wizards were planning was Tom himself.

Harry realized that Scrooge was still waiting for him to speak; for one the older man was still staring at him impatiently. Harry forced himself to return to their conversation and managed to dredge up a relevant line.

"I suppose… it'll have to wait," he said, in a perfectly bland tone.

Scrooge frowned at Harry's clear distraction. He was going to probe more, but then one of the old clocks he was still working on chose that minute to burst into a loud jarring alarm, causing Scrooge to drop his glove into the fire and swear. And just like that, the moment was lost.

…

When Harry returned to the orphanage much later that night, he noticed a strange dog-eared note slipped beneath his covers, easily overlooked yet unmissable when he made to climb in. At first Harry was certain he wouldn't be able to make out anything in the gloom, but the moment he held up the paper, the message on the paper began to glow.

Hurriedly Harry thrust his hand back deep into the covers and waited with bated breath for someone to stir, but no one did. The snoring and rhythmic breathing went on as usual. Harry threw the blankets over his head and held up the note again.

It was a symbol of much simplicity: a circle with a horizontal line running through the middle. The lines began to glow faintly again when he studied it, puzzled. Then slowly words began to form beneath the picture. Harry squinted to study the flowing script. _Forsildan._ It wasn't any language he recognized. He turned the paper over. The tone in which it was written was in a simple yet demanding order: _Hide well_ _._

Harry frowned at the curious message. But even as he puzzled over it, more than anything he was surprised by the small gesture. He had no idea what it meant, but there was no one else that would leave him the note except Tom. Frankly he'd expected to be ignored, or until Tom decided to come round and blackmail him with something, but he'd gotten this. It was probably a rune of some sort that Tom wanted Harry to learn, he reasoned. Tom had mentioned magical runes before.

Tom probably had his purpose for sending Harry this note, but Harry couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of warmth at the little gift. Deciding to try it out immediately, Harry drew an imaginary rune on the bedsheet with his fingers.

" _Forsildan!"_ he whispered as loud as he dared.

It was as he expected, nothing happened at all. Harry frowned and concentrated harder, tracing the rune harder still into his bed. _"Forsildan!"_ he half-whispered again.

Nothing changed. Harry wondered if he was supposed to draw the rune with something specific. He chanced a look at the blurry dark shape at the foot of his mattress. It was probably too much of a fuss to get out a pencil and paper without alerting the other boys. He would try it in class the next day. They had double periods of History anyway.

Carefully Harry slipped the small piece of paper into his inner jacket pocket. Then he rolled over and fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…

-X-

The next day at the orphanage, little Simon's pet hamster was, supposedly, strangled to death.

It wouldn't have been half such a big issue if Simon hadn't been one of the Nurse's favorites, and that the other children knew that Simon had been part of the operation when Jack had ambushed Harry with his gang. But even coincidence had favored Harry's bad luck, and Harry's 'freakiness', his constant disappearing acts, unexplained bruises and dismal schoolwork had never endeared him to the nurses. And as a result of all such combined factors, Harry was put under a bad light even before he made his appearance after school had ended.

Harry had arrived late as usual, preparing to slip upstairs quietly for a quick nap before dinner. (He'd been held back by his English teacher when she discovered, with much fury, that his exercise book to be filled with drawings of circles with lines running across them instead of her essays.) However, the moment Harry stepped over the threshold, he could sense it at once: a slight tension in the atmosphere, shifty and uncertain. More than that, even if dinner wouldn't be served for another half an hour, the children were already crowded downstairs – and the moment he entered all heads turned to look at him.

There was a small box set in the middle of the table. Half-curious and apprehensive at the same time, Harry advanced to come to a halt before it. Automatically the children parted way for him, but Harry was too preoccupied to notice. He recognized the small plastic cage instantly: and very soon Harry caught sight of the hamster lying on top of a pile of uneaten feed. It looked as though it had died in its sleep with its paws raised into the air.

Simon was standing there, a protective hand over his cage. His young face was frighteningly cold and bloodless, and when Harry approached he flinched involuntarily before holding his ground. Harry frowned at his odd behavior, but he didn't manage to say anything before the Nurse arrived at the scene, her apron stained with flecks of oil.

"What's going on?" she demanded in a stern voice the moment she entered, but her face changed completely the moment she saw Simon standing there. Her irritable demeanor was gone in an instant as she hurriedly closed in the last steps to see for herself what had happened.

"Oh, my poor dear!" she exclaimed, immediately bending down to engulf Simon in a hug. "Are you alright?"

Mutely Simon shook his head. He was biting his lip so hard Harry expected it to bleed. The Nurse apparently thought so too, because she started to rub the younger boy's back soothingly as she tried to comfort her favorite boy.

"It's all right, it lived a long and comfortable life," she said, patting Simon's head fondly. "I'll get you a new one sometime, okay? Don't bite your lip like that, it's going to hurt and bleed…"

"He didn't die of old age," Simon blurted suddenly. He'd been certain of it the moment he found his pet in that state, but it was the first time he dared to say it aloud to the whole crowd. And without lifting a finger, his eyes shifted over to meet Harry's solemnly as he spoke. "He was strangled to death."

A twittering of discussions immediately rose up at the declaration, though it quickly died when some realized that Harry was standing in very close proximities to them. But the damage was done.

All the while Simon had remained tight-lipped about 'that' evening, but rumors of Jack's failed ambush had spread like wildfire at school, and Harry had soon evolved to take the place of the unknown 'demon' that had attacked the gang that night – with him transforming into a ten-foot tall skeletal figure with red eyes, dealing the whole gang with a crushing blow and strangling Jack until the boy was forced to let Harry go. As a result, where Harry had previously been regarded with some measure of uneasiness, he was now given a wide berth out of fear.

Harry's jaw tightened at the none-too-subtle accusation. He could hardly say anything without smudging himself in more suspicion, but at that Simon abruptly decided he'd had enough. Without a backward glance the younger boy slipped through the crowd and darted back up the stairs mutely.

Harry on the contrary wasn't going to let the boy go so easily. Without missing a beat, Harry spun on the spot and followed the other up the stairs, climbing up the steps three at a time.

Simon however wasn't about to let himself be confronted. His footsteps were rapid and unfaltering as he headed back towards their dormitories – doubtless preparing to slam and lock himself in. But few people could outmatch Harry's speed, much less when he'd learnt a trick or two. When Simon had safely reached the landing leading towards the corridor, Harry discreetly tugged the boy's legs with magic. In the next second, Simon had tripped over himself to end up sprawled over the corridor. Harry took the opportunity to close their distance until Simon could hardly pretend not to hear him.

"I didn't do it," Harry said immediately.

They were standing in front of their shared dormitory. Simon refused to face him and kept his eyes firmly on the open doorway, but Harry saw the boy's eyes shift slightly to appraise him before turning away.

"Don't mess with y-you," Simon said almost tremulously. Harry suddenly realized that the boy was holding back tears. "I got the message, alright!"

"I didn't even touch your hamster!" Harry shot back vehemently, sick and angry that no one seemed to believe him. "If you'd bothered to notice, I _just came back._ I wasn't even _around_ to strangle your rat, much less go near it at all!"

"I know you don't even need to go near it!" Simon practically yelled in his face. It was the first time Harry had heard the younger boy raise his voice. "It was just the same case as Jack wasn't it! All you needed to do was raise a hand!"

"That _wasn't even me!"_ Harry shouted back at the boy, anger, hurt and bile churning in his gut. Did they truly think he would nearly kill Jack over the sake of one stupid fight? He'd even given up magic, given up on Tom as his mentor because he'd known it was _wrong_ , and –

"HARRY! Stand where you are!"

The rest of the words died on his lips. He turned around and felt his heart fall to the bottom of his stomach. The rest of the children were crowded around the other end of the corridor as they watched the drama unfold – and worst of all, the Nurse was advancing towards them, her eyes hard and angry. Even before she reached them Harry could tell who the victim and culprit in her eyes were.

"You're coming with me to the Office right now!" the Nurse shrieked in his face, confirming his thoughts exactly. "How _dare_ you even harm Simon's pet? Were your fights with those gangs not enough?"

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes in frustration. That would only worsen his inevitable punishment.

He _hadn't even been around._ Was this how blind people were willing to become?

The Nurse seemed to take Harry's silence as unwilling contriteness. She reached out a hand and started to drag him by the ear down the corridor, towards the 'Office' as they used to call it. Simon took the chance to dart into the dormitory, and the door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang.

The rest of children stared at them as they passed, their gazes stinging into Harry's face like lasers. Harry didn't react. Saying anything else would only serve to add to Nurse's ire – and even so there was nothing he _could_ say.

If she had believed him to be culprit despite how unreasonable the circumstances were, there was nothing he could do to change her mind.

It was no surprise to Harry that the Nurse had already drawn presumptions about what had happened. She continued her rant as they descended down the stairs, Harry's ear still pinched firmly between her fingers. " – of course, you felt as if you were entitled to exact some form of revenge over Simon because he tattled on your whereabouts to that dreadful gang," she began in a matter-of-fact 'I-understand-what-you're-going-through' kind of tone. "But has it ever crossed your mind that it was your fault for disobeying the orphanage rules in the first place?! That Simon may have been forced to spill your location so he wouldn't get hurt himself?"

Outwardly Harry didn't react, but his jaw tightened. She hadn't even flinched when _he'd_ shown up at the orphanage every day bruised and bloody, before he'd agreed to 'work' for Jack.

His heart was a strange thing. He hadn't minded much then; it was his business and he would have to deal with it himself. But now facing a situation where Simon was protected while he wasn't, his heart raged silently at the injustice of it all.

A small tendril of his magic which had been boiling dangerously under the surface escaped his hold. The hanging lamp above the landing flickered ominously. The Nurse looked up momentarily, distracted, but when her eyes came to rest upon Harry again she stopped. There was something about his eyes, a simmering rage that made her feel decidedly uncertain. Harry knew that she wasn't exactly unkind, but she was often impulsive, and her fiery temper always led her to rash decisions. That, and also she was known to choose favorites from the moment the children got accepted into Wool's.

Her eyes seemed to study the younger boy for a moment, as she allowed her words to trail off. Harry turned his face resolutely away from her. Sensing her lapse in decisiveness, Harry took the opportunity to wrench himself free out of her grip.

"I'll be back later," he said through gritted teeth. At least that was what it sounded like. The Nurse barely managed to blink at his completely unforeseen behaviour. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could finish the first and only syllable in ' _what?'_ Harry was already moving.

Ever since he was very young, they had always caught rumors of Harry having an unnatural swiftness, but it was only then when the Nurse believed them. Without another word, Harry had leapt for the bannisters – not onto them to slide down to the ground floor as some of the younger children liked to do. Instead, he slipped lightly _over_ the bannisters to hurtle towards the ground floor, catching the odd handhold of the second-floor bannisters and steps to slow his descent. Behind him he heard the Nurse give a long shrill scream, but he was beyond caring.

In the next half of the minute, he was already well on his way down the streets, the brilliant rays of twilight a stark contrast to the turmoil in his mind. He kept on walking head-down, past Picket-Fence Street and past Scrooge's house as well. And much like the day he had simply ran blindly to Scrooge's without quite knowing why, some ten minutes later, Harry ended up standing across the last house at the end of Middle Street.

It was there, past the old rickety gate and beside the small clearing he knew would contain the Wyr Tree that he finally stopped and allowed himself to sink to the ground. The strange little plant was still standing there, its leaves rippling with silver exactly like the first time he'd seen in. With a thump Harry sat down and stared at the plant, trying to draw the most comfort he could from it.

He continued to watch it until all his emotions left him and only numbness remained.

…

 **A/N: So there's chapter 7 for you guys, after much work and re-polishing. I have lost count of the amount of times I went over each part of the story O.O. Hope it turned out well nevertheless, and that you enjoyed it all the same! I'm already excited to know what you'll think about the next chapterrr! :P**

 **If you did, please hit the button below :P**

 **Rating system for the busy, lazy or vocabulary-compromised or other conditions you may feel like specifying:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **. for lovely**

 **X for terrible**

 **Thank you and see you soon! :P**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks a million to** _Tortus, Noitcerusser, LicaSchmidt, Mongruad, Phoenixx Rising, Serna J and guests._ **You guys are simply amazing! Thank you so much!**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. And the award for stating the obvious goes to...

* * *

 **Chapter 8:**

Tom didn't return that night.

He wasn't certain if he had been waiting for the other, but he must have been, because his eyes kept drifting to the low gates which remained resolutely closed.

The last rays of sunlight had long since been swallowed into the depths of the black canvas, and the temperature had taken a sharp plunge without the warmth brought by day. He had no idea what time it was, but either way the wizard showed no sign of turning up. Harry shivered slightly as he huddled closer to himself, drawing his legs as close to his chest as possible. Beside him the Wyr Tree remained as a small curious plant, its leaves twinkling with silver.

 _Perhaps he's avoiding me,_ Harry thought to himself morosely. After all he had been the cause that they were now at odds with each other, and he was the first to wage the cold war. Maybe this was Tom's reciprocation.

Harry didn't find the reason very plausible, but he was too numb with cold to come up with any other explanation. He was still wearing his jacket (he didn't get the chance to take it off before he'd left the orphanage), but even that was proving insufficient to protect him against the deepening autumn chill.

Eventually Harry grew tired of waiting for Tom to appear. The tight feeling sitting in his stomach ever since the day he'd turned away from Tom hadn't lightened, and it only grew a shade heavier as he reluctantly climbed to his feet, but Harry didn't pause his steps.

He hadn't come up with any ideas as to _how_ he was going to clear up this mess, he'd simply turned up knowing that Tom would know what to do. And now even that plan had been thwarted. Harry let loose a short sigh between his lips. He wasn't sure if he would have the courage to return a second time, but he also knew he couldn't go on waiting pointlessly in the cold.

Briefly Harry considered returning to the orphanage, but he immediately discarded the idea. He didn't feel up to facing the music just yet, and besides he'd already told Scrooge he would be coming later in the day. While he doubted Scrooge would actually go searching for him, he still had a fairly good idea how cross the old man would be if he arrived at his cottage in the middle of the night. Scrooge didn't like being disturbed, especially when he was sleeping. It was already late enough as it was.

The thought of the cramped, topsy-turvy cottage warmed him somewhat, and it was with these thoughts that Harry pressed on, gritting his teeth against the sharp gust of chilling wind.

Harry was already well away from Middle Street, and was cutting a short-cut through the newspaper man's back garden when he heard a commotion going on. It sounded too far away for him to make out anything, but suddenly a sharp flare of blinding light shot up into the darkness, a street away from where he stood. Harry stopped in his tracks. For a brief moment he was convinced to dismiss them as fireworks, but the wind abruptly changed its course – and the smell of acrid, pungent smoke filled his nostrils.

Something was on fire.

Even as the thought crossed his mind another sheet of flame rose high into the sky like a bizarre pillar of fire before falling back into the dark, this time nearer still to where he was standing. The stench of smoke only grew more putrid. Harry felt a trill of alarm run through him. What was going on?

A part of Harry sensed what was going to happen before it actually did. Even before he'd joined Jack's gang, Harry had always held an ingrained survival instinct; and perhaps it was this instinct that spurred his liking towards dark and caliginous places. While the other children used to fear the dark, Harry always felt safer under the shrouding cover the shadows provided. But now while he was still standing in the backstreets, a place only few could claim to know well let alone navigate, and well hidden from any source of light – Harry suddenly felt very much vulnerable and uncertain. The silence around him was suffocating; it was as if the quietness were a silent scream of warning to him, of the danger that would come.

And quite suddenly, it arrived.

All around him, sharp _cracks_ started to echo both up and down the alleys and streets. The sound set his heart to a fluttering non-rhythmic beat, and with a rush of déjà vu he recalled when he'd last heard it: the time he'd been standing outside Mr. Higgins' house eavesdropping on the two robed men conversing. Except that this time, it wasn't a single quiet _pop;_ instead, it was multiplied a hundredfold, reverberating eerily in every direction and setting Harry's nerves on fire. His hands were clenched by his sides, numb and frozen not by the cold.

He couldn't stay here. It was only pure instinct, but instinct had always saved his life and had yet to prove him wrong. Harry didn't need to think twice. He sprang into action immediately, taking off with unnatural swiftness towards the left, where he'd yet to see evidence of any disturbances.

It wasn't a moment too soon. Half a second later a sharp _crack_ behind him signaled the arrival of perhaps another wizard. Harry didn't dare to turn back to confirm his theory, nor did he even pause to question if they were after him. He continued to run on autopilot, his legs taking him away and out of the backstreets where more and more _cracks_ could be heard, almost identical to the crackling of fireworks.

Harry burst forth into a pool of yellow light from the streetlamp five minutes later, skidding to a halt at the intersection between Picket-Fence and White-Fence Street. Green eyes scanned all possible routes of escape before a horrifying sight made him startle backwards, and he slid back into the shadows instead.

It was pointless to continue running – he was vastly outnumbered.

Harry had initially thought that he'd been running away from the wizards, but it turned out that he'd been wrong. He'd chosen the left fork of the road which led away from his original destination, because he'd witnessed the flare of burning fire somewhere up North, followed by South. But it turned out he had been running in a full pointless circle. They were trapped.

Before him swarms of dark-robed men were roaming about like bizarre imitations of vampires out of children's stories. Each of them were wearing a white mask which obscured their features, and with a jolt of his heart Harry noted the 'wands' Tom had mentioned before. Every one of them was carrying a stick of sorts, save a few who stowed them under the folds of their cloaks.

Harry didn't understand what was going on, but there was a sinister feeling lurking heavily in the air, like a snare waiting for an animal to pass through – and he didn't dare to show himself. Years of experience had honed his senses sharply, and he could feel the tension running high even from where he stood.

Like the silence before a storm, the night remained unusually quiet. The men continued to roam about the streets, like hunters do before the ultimate hunt. It was as if they were waiting for some kind of signal. Harry tried to sort through his muddled thoughts to come up with a plan, but to no avail. Everything was happening so fast he barely had time to react.

"Greyback!" suddenly, one of the men standing further up the street called out in warning. His voice sounded angry. "You know the orders. It's not yet time to attack."

In response, a man standing directly across the road – Greyback presumably, sneered and tore off his mask in a careless gesture. Harry shrunk back instinctively at the sight. Greyback had been standing directly under the yellow lamp, and his features were thrown into horrifying definition. It was clearly the face of a man, but there was something wrong about it somehow: his teeth were yellowed and pointed like canines, and his eyes weren't human at all. They were a deep yellow, they were wild and roving like a hunter's – a _predator._ They were wolves' eyes.

"Who does _Lestrange_ think she is? The Dark Lord?" Greyback spat back in retort. He refused to move away from the door in which he had been a step away from breaking open. "I can hear it, I can taste it! All the fun has already begun on _her_ side!" He raised a hand and pointed in the distance, where smoke was rising rapidly.

Few metres away, Harry pressed back deeper into the shadows, his blood turning to ice. He didn't dare to turn back and look.

 _Fun._

That was the _point_ of the attack. Words he heard in some dim memory from days ago filtered back to the forefront of his mind, bringing with them numbing realization. Hadn't that been what the wizards had been discussing, that late afternoon in front of Mr. Higgins' porch?

… _it's time we cooked up some excitement. We've remained silent far too long._

"…I don't see any point of waiting. I can smell young blood inside," Greyback continued to say, temporarily unaware of Harry standing close by. He was busy glowering at the wizard who'd issued the order.

"If you have an objection, Greyback, bring it up to her face!" the other man snarled back, not backing down. "If you're in this unit, you listen to my orders. If not, you can explain yourself to Lestrange after I've made my report!"

Greyback growled menacingly in response, but he shifted out of the streetlight and took a few paces forwards to the middle of the road. Harry's breath caught in his throat. If he was discovered now… he really didn't dare to think of the consequences.

Resisting the urge to turn tail and flee back down the road, Harry held his ground and remained crouching in the darkness, still as a statue. He could only pray and hope he would remain undetected until he got the chance to flee, perhaps cutting straight back to the orphanage. He knew any sudden movement would give him away. The moment the slightest distraction occurred, he would sprint back the way he came and flip over the high wall beside Smith's Alley. He doubted they would be able to follow him there.

For a moment Harry was almost convinced that the trick would work. None of the milling wizards noticed an additional pair of eyes watching them in their midst. But at the last moment before turning back towards the house, the wolf-like man suddenly stilled. His wild manic eyes which had been locked on gates leading to Number 10 Picket-Fence Street suddenly turned back to scan the darkness, and they landed directly where Harry was standing.

Harry immediately froze in the dark, barely daring to breathe. He could feel his blood pulsing in his jugular vein, roaring in his ears. Greyback couldn't see him – the shadows provided him ample cover. There was no way that the man could see him unless –

Yellowed orbs met his. Predatory eyes widened -

A green spark flew up into the sky behind where Harry was standing. It wasn't much, but for precious seconds it distracted the werewolf.

The cloaked wizards responded at once to the signal. The man who'd first snapped at Greyback replied in kind by sending up a red flare into the sky, and the other wizards swarmed into action at his order.

With a blood-chilling roar, cursed flames leapt out from multiple wands, bringing with them an ethereal bluish-purple glow. The moment the fire left their wands, hey gathered to lick and frozen hard ground – and instead of dying away at the lack of fuel like they normally should, they only grew in their intensity. They writhed into shapes of hellish creatures, spewing fire from their tongues. And then, with a blood-chilling roar, they cascaded upon the row of houses like the tide.

In less than a second, over in a single heartbeat, the world was set on fire.

For a moment Harry forgot about his precarious position, transfixed in morbid fascination at the sheer enormity of the destruction the fire caused. Nothing about it seemed real or plausible. The sheer heat scorched his face and burned at his skin, the only thing that told him that it wasn't just a twisted nightmare. His eyes were only focused on the wall of fire swallowing the row of houses.

Dimly he noticed that one of the occupants of the second house down the road managed to get out. It was a large beefy man brandishing a gun, but due to the deafening roar of the cursed fire, Harry couldn't make out the words he was shouting. For a moment Harry had almost believed that he could have made it. Then the wizards laughed at his effort, and one of them swiped his wand at the man viciously.

Harry turned away. His blood was roaring in his ears, ringing in a twisted cacophony with the wild shrieks of the hellish monsters behind him as they rampaged through the street out of control.

The sight of the man, who was now writhing on the floor behind his turned back, had reminded him abruptly of someone. His heart thumped so madly that it hurt, his legs nailed in place by a sharp frigid _coldness._

Scrooge. Scrooge was at home.

Harry turned on the spot and ran. His heartbeat was pulsing even faster than before as the fear for someone else gripped him and his senses, numbing him to his surroundings. He couldn't feel, couldn't see anything else: all that mattered was his legs flying madly across tarmac and pavement back to that old run-down cottage at the other side of the village.

Behind him, Greyback, who'd been momentarily blinded by the dazzling fires, was alerted instantly at the sudden movement. With a wolfish growl he leapt down the street in pursuit of Harry, leaving the rest of the terrorizing to the others. After all to him the only prize of raids was fresh blood.

Harry was quickly reaching a low white-washed wall which separated where he was from the backstreets. It was initially the way he'd taken before he'd ended up at the T-junction. Greyback snarled and picked up his speed, gaining on the boy slightly. While Harry could outrun most of his pursuers with relative ease, Greyback was a werewolf and had better agility than most wizards.

But Harry wasn't named 'Arrow' for nothing. In a single leap the boy had scaled the wall, landing over on the other side in a fluid motion. Greyback could see the boy continue to run, fleeing down the dark alleys with incredible speed. The werewolf snarled. There was no way he was letting his first prey escape easily from him.

Having succumbed to his wolf's nature so many years ago, Greyback rarely ever used magic, preferring instead to leap straight for his victim's throats and using his claws and teeth to do the work. However this time his closest prey was fleeing fast, and he needed to buy time to shorten the distance between them before making his final leap.

In a flash Greyback whipped out his wand and pointed it at the stretch of wall looming ahead of him. Harry was still running in full pelt on the other side, unaware of the werewolf's incoming attack.

" _Bombarda!"_ Greyback snarled.

The seemingly insignificant jet of light leapt from his wand and thundered towards the low wall. Greyback watched with malicious satisfaction as green eyes widen as a massive jagged crack ran through the hardened brick at the impact. He saw the brief shock flitting across the boy's face, a split seconds before the concrete exploded.

The effect was massive. The explosion sent shrapnel, brick and debris hurtling through the air, digging into pavement and knocking out streetlamps. The two streetlamps standing nearest to the point of impact groaned heavily as part of the wall collapsed against metal, and with a huge crash they toppled one after another onto the road, snapping at cables and pulling down the rest. A stray spark of cursed fire from the raging inferno caught the wires, and abruptly the streets were lit up by a dazzling chain of fire.

There was no way the boy would have survived it. He'd been standing far too close to the wall, and the streetlamps had collapsed one after another upon his path, where the Fiendfire had spiraled out of control to lick the earth, as if the roads were but dry grass. In a single act the tarmac had become a sea of flames.

But the boy did what would have been impossible, even for a wizard. It happened so quickly that a normal man would have missed it completely. It was only because Greyback was a trained hunter and predator that he caught a glimpse of what had transpired. For in that single flash of that moment when the boy had turned back, Greyback saw green eyes flash a molten gold – and it was, as if the boy stopped time itself.

It was little more than half a second, barely enough for Greyback blink, much less let down his Shield. He told himself it had only been a trick of light. A reflection of the golden flames in the boy's dying green eyes. But a second later when his vision cleared, he saw that the boy was still running… - _at the very far end of the road._

…

* * *

...

-X-

Severus Snape was in a foul temper.

He'd been looking forwards to a long-overdue rest over the weekend, but Selwyn had abruptly brought a Muggle town to Bellatrix's attention – and the half-crazed witch had jumped at the opportunity for another Death-Eater raid. The rest of the Death-Eaters had been contacted and informed, and much against his own will, Dumbledore had insisted that Snape showed up to divert suspicion. As a result he was now involved in a raid in some rural Muggle village, witnessing a thousand murders instead of grading potions essays.

It was a bleak situation to say the least.

Just like the rest of the Wizarding world, Snape had once, foolishly believed that the war had ended the day the curse rebounded and struck the Dark Lord. Even if Dumbledore had warned him otherwise, it was difficult not to get his hopes up despite his natural pessimism. But standing now in the midst of more destruction and gore, Snape could only scorn at their naivety.

Even if their leader had been destroyed almost a decade ago, the Death-Eaters did not stop. While they might have fallen into disorganization and subsequent ruin, Voldemort's right hand Bellatrix Lestrange had taken it upon herself to pursue the fight until her Lord returned. She persisted in organizing raids in the Muggle world, attacking Wizarding towns as the Death-Eaters slowly chipped away at the number of men the Ministry had. The pureblood witch was crafty as she was resourceful, and a little reward here and there – and the Death-Eaters were mostly content to follow through her ideas. Those who sought positions in the Ministry got what they wanted, the bloodthirsty werewolves satisfied their lust for fresh blood, and the Death-Eaters got to live up to their pureblood ideals by destroying more Muggles.

As a result the Death-Eaters continued to pose a large threat to the Ministry, and Snape's position as a spy was never terminated.

Snape was currently lurking in a darker corner with an invisible Shield and Notice-Me-Not Charm cast over himself. Even if he'd turned up, most of the Death-Eaters knew his distaste for gore and blood, so they mostly left him alone as they ravaged through the small Muggle village, setting houses on fire and torturing the unfortunate victims they found to be alive. Snape's job was to ensure that no 'Muggle filth' escaped them before they were through playing their games.

Snape had just turned his back on Mulciber and his latest victim when he first saw the strange boy. At first he didn't see the other fully, but he caught a glimpse of hauntingly brilliant green eyes enough to capture his attention. Just a brief flash before the small figure melted into the shadows.

Immediately Snape turned away from the position where the boy had been standing. He knew that the boy was still there, cleverly concealing himself in the dark – but Snape was wary of approaching the other. If he revealed the child's position, doubtless the boy wouldn't live for much longer.

Snape allowed his eyes to sweep across the burning landscape, inwardly contemplating his next course of action. He couldn't save everyone, but with discretion he could manage a few. Yet there was no way the boy could survive the raid if he stayed where he was. How was he supposed to get the child out of harm's way without being detected?

Before he could come to a decision however, someone else had noticed the boy. Snape recognized the werewolf at once, his figure blending perfectly into the shadows. Snape felt a rush of distaste for the Death-Eater, followed by a separate chill of dread. He had fairly good idea what Greyback was doing here even when his assigned area had been Selwyn's unit. Young blood.

There was a bang, and a flash of red light, and the boy was sent sprawling onto the rough tarmac. He skidded to a halt a few paces from where Snape stood. Even from the distance Snape could tell that the fall had wounded the boy considerably; his right knee had taken the brunt of his weight, and red was pooling from numerous cuts on previously unblemished skin.

"I was looking for you everywhere boy," Greyback sneered as he advanced slowly. His teeth were already bloodstained, whether from the gash running down his hideous wolfish face or from another victim's throat, Snape couldn't tell. "I don't care whatever tricks you have, they're not working this time."

The boy flinched. He tried to climb to his feet, but he was clearly still in pain. To make matters worse, Greyback's arrival a few more Death-Eaters quickly became more interested in this turn of events. At the new excitement, three of the men circled in quickly like birds of prey, Macnair included.

Snape fingered his wand slowly, hidden beneath the hem of his sleeve. He rarely ever intervened, but the boy was but a mere child – and more than that his sub-conscious had realized something about the boy even if he was determined not to acknowledge it.

Discreetly Snape lifted his wand, pointing it in the direction of the Death-Eaters, but to his surprise, before he'd managed to cast any spell, the three men were abruptly hurtled backwards a few paces by a brutal force. It wasn't enough to knock them out, but a few of them suffered a nasty fall on their backs.

Snape looked around wildly, hardly daring to hope that the Ministry officials would be competent enough to send some men to intervene for once. Given their current it would probably be another suicide mission, but at least they could decrease the number of casualties. But one around immediately told him of the contrary: there was no one around to help.

Who had cast the spell?

Snape cast his eyes back to the scene, his eyes alert and searching.

While the rest had been flung off their feet by the magical force, Greyback had suffered the brunt of the unknown attack. The werewolf had been sent crashing _through_ a solid wall behind him, while Macnair and the rest were currently struggling to stand a few feet away from where their initial spot. Snape's eyes snapped towards the small huddled figure in the middle of the road. The boy was still lying there, alone and unaided. He didn't seem to be affected by this shocking display of magic like a Muggle should; instead he climbed shakily to his feet painfully and half-limped, half-ran down the street. The flames from the burning houses threw haunting shadows upon his small figure as he did. The air was so thick with fear, blood and fire that it was difficult to breathe without casting any spell, but the boy plunged on recklessly, heading towards the clutter of Death-Eaters who were standing in the middle of the road.

The strangeness of the moment struck a chord in his mind. He remembered pausing slightly, his mind puzzled as he tried to figure out the identity of the boy with those curious emerald eyes.

And then he saw it happen.

Three Death-Eaters had quickly cornered the boy before he could run far, but before they'd even had the chance to attack, history repeated itself. A wave of magic rose up around the boy and hurtled the black-robed wizards to the ground with sheer force. But what startled Snape wasn't the repetition of the spell – but rather the castor himself. Because this time, he saw young green eyes blaze with fire reflected off the burning houses, and he saw the boy's mouth open to form words even though he'd been too far to hear them.

But even if Snape ever knew how to lip-read, and managed to do so from the distance, he wouldn't have been able to make out the spell that had been cast. Because more than it was never a spell to begin with, the language in which it was spoken was in Parseltongue.

...

 **A/N: This chapter was a product of watching too much Merlin. As you may or may not have guessed. Apologies for the cliffie, and feedback would be greatly appreciated. :D**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**

 **P.S: Any chance someone can drop me a review in German? I'm trying to improve before my exams. :P**


	9. Chapter 9

**This chapter is dedicated to all these amazing people:** _Ciara, Alpha Rynn, Serna J, Gothazon, Tortus, Cauchy, Cien, Scarlett Woman, LicaSchmidt,_ _Yosbones_ and _Guest_. **Thank you so so so much! We're halfway to hundred now! :P**

DISCLAIMER: Nope I own nothing. As usual.

* * *

 **Chapter 9:**

When Harry had first cast the rune at the incoming wizards, truth be told, he barely had any hope of it working at all. He didn't even have the faintest idea as to what it was supposed to do. All the times he'd been practicing on making the rune work, nothing ever happened. He'd tried drawing it on paper, even using chalk on the floor, but even if he'd felt the occasional tingling of magic, everything around him remained unaffected.

At first he'd rolled over to the edge of the road to avoid the three wizards in pursuit of him. For a moment he felt utterly lost, torn between running and hoping they wouldn't catch up with him or pausing just enough to delay them. Then he remembered the small slip of paper hidden in his inner jacket pocket: the rune Tom had given to him only the night before.

Tom had said to use it when he was hiding, but he didn't know any other spells or any other form of magic that could help him right now. Spontaneously Harry looked down and found that beneath the dying grass he was standing on a silver of hard frozen earth. He dropped down to the ground immediately, using his fingers to draw the rune again on the ground. Through his haze of panic, his eyes caught a flash of the image of a circle and a line running through the middle, and it burned in his mind and filled his vision. If it didn't work, he didn't know what would.

In his peripheral vision, Harry saw the wizards slow down as they slowly closed in their prey, and he threw one last prayer to the wind.

" _Forsildan!"_ he shouted the spell aloud.

The effect was greater than he'd expected. Immediately a silver-blue ring of magic widened around him abruptly and exploded outwards, knocking out the wizards in a full three-metre radius. They slammed into their companions behind them, rolling backwards to form a crumpled heap. Cries of shock erupted all around Harry. It was clear none of them had expected anyone from the small Muggle village to know any sort of magic, much less a boy his age.

But activating the rune didn't come without a price. The moment the circle expanded outwards a wave of vertigo hit him, and Harry swayed slightly to stay upright. A strange perfect circle seemed to hover around him, and it emitted a bright blue light in a five-metre radius with him as the centre. It glowed and dimmed at regular intervals, but no one else seemed to notice the blue insubstantial line. It was as if Harry was the only one who could see it.

" _Diffindo!"_ another voice cried.

Dizzily Harry stumbled around to dodge the spell, but there was no need; the spark barely left tip of the wizard's wand before it was snuffed out. Confused, the approaching wizards tried again, another, and another – but suddenly none of their spells seemed to work. But Harry was not comforted. While none of their wands seemed to be functioning properly, they had already stepped within the boundaries of the circle. It seemed as though the rune only had a one-time expulsion effect or something. He didn't know how it was supposed to work anyway, and despite the ring's protection from magic he could hardly stay in the same place forever.

Even as he thought this, the circle seemed to shrink in from all directions, until it was confined to a small one-metre radius. Harry felt his energy drain away. He felt so tired he was tempted to simply drop down there and then until he woke up some time later.

Another masked wizard had approached the group. Harry squinted slightly to make out his features, but only a blank white mask stared back at him. The newcomer's pale blonde hair burned white against the glare of the fire. Even so Harry could tell by the way the others regarded the newcomer that he was a leader of sorts.

The world chose that moment to shift dangerously, and Harry was forced to slam his eyes shut to gain back his balance. In that brief moment of darkness, Harry felt a vague pang of disappointment. He didn't know why, but for a moment he'd half hoped that Tom would show up. He didn't know how powerful his former mentor was, but Tom simply had that impeccable sense of security around him.

When he opened his eyes again, the newcomer had come to stand right before him, treading on the silver-blue line itself. While the other wizards had been bewildered at their sudden inability to cast any spells, they had momentarily ceased fire in the presence of their leader. Harry blinked slowly as the leader came to a halt right before him.

"You have caused my men many grievances," the blonde wizard started, keeping his tone deceptively light. Harry had no doubt it would turn dangerous the next second. "Look at you! You aren't even shocked at the spells we perform. It makes me curious. Where did you learn such tricks boy?"

The other men shuffled around Harry, circling him in a perfect trap. Harry swallowed. Emerald green eyes flitted from one masked face to another.

"I was - born like this," he managed to reply at last, forcing his voice to remain steady. The ground shifted alarmingly, but Harry refused to give the others the satisfaction of knowing that.

The leader nodded slightly, thoughtfully. "Your parents?" he asked mildly.

Harry's eyes hardened as he shot the man the coldest glare he could master, his gaze radiating steel. "You… have no right to ask," he forced himself to say, through gritted teeth, but then he immediately wished he hadn't. The effort had caused him to lose concentration, and in that brief moment his hold over his magic slipped, the blue circle which had nulled the wizards' magic shrunk and disappeared as if it had never been. Nobody saw it, just as no one noticed its appearance, but Harry was now as vulnerable as ever.

The leader sighed and rose to his feet. "A true mudblood then," he said pityingly. "Here I was about to give you a chance, but now the mudblood bites back and tries to talk to me about _rights._ "

There was a hint of finality in his tone as he did. Harry sensed it, and so did the rest. Wordlessly the leader waved a dismissive hand and moved to stalk away. The wizards tightened around their prey. Bitterly Harry reflected on the day Jack and the rest had ambushed him at the playground. He'd hardly stood a chance then. There was no way he could survive this now.

The man standing the closest to Harry brought his wand down in a slashing motion. A brilliant jet of green light was glowing at the tip of his wand. They were in too close proximities to miss. There was no space to dodge. His breath jarred in his throat. He had no more tricks left to pull. No more spells, no more magic. He couldn't run. Instinctively he shrunk back, gritting his teeth and bracing himself for the pain to come. And it did, but not in the way he expected it to be.

No one ever knew how he came to have the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead; apparently it had been there the day he'd been dumped unceremoniously on Wool's doorstep one late autumn's night. Over the last few years, a strange prickling sensation radiating from the scar only grew, but Harry had long since become accustomed to it and dismissed it as a headache. They had worsened considerably over the past week especially, but it was nothing compared to this.

His scar split open in blinding-white agony, causing him to fall to his knees with a cry. The world slammed shut into a wall of darkness. His fingers flew to his forehead in attempt to stop the onslaught of agony but nothing helped. It was as if the scar was being carved into his skin. Without knowing it he crumpled to the ground, the only thing he was aware of was his hand pressed hard against the lightning scar, praying for the pain to stop. Wetness dribbled from his forehead down his face, mingling with the blood from the numerous cuts on his cheek.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain subsided. Panting heavily, Harry blearily cracked open his eyes. He half-expected another spell to come hurtling his way, but no pain greeted him. He swiped at the blood covering almost half of his face and looked through blurred vision at the tilting world.

The circle of men standing around him was gone.

Slowly, his senses began filtering back to him, and Harry realized that the scene had erupted into utter pandemonium. The wizards were shouting incoherently, some were doubled over with pain. They were pointing at something in the sky, and their fear was reflected clearly in their faces. Harry slowly raised his head and angled his eyes to see the cause of their panic.

He saw a huge glowing skull in sharp, searing green, with a serpent hanging out of its mouth like a tongue. Harry didn't know what it meant, but the wizards seemed terrified at the sight of it. Within minutes the familiar _cracking_ sounds punctuated the night air, and the wizards turned and disappeared on the spot. One followed another, and very soon the streets were empty, leaving Harry standing there, abruptly lost and alone.

Only the sea of flames that continued to devour his home village told him that it hadn't all been a nightmare.

…

* * *

...

-X-

He could barely walk. His legs which had always led him out of every disaster, which could run faster than anyone he knew, dragged behind him limply as he staggered forwards painfully. His body felt infuriatingly _weak,_ each part of him burning as if the cursed fire had engulfed him as well. Only the firm grip over his wrist half-dragging him forwards anchored him to the world as they marched through the ashes.

The remains of the village left behind were almost unrecognizable. Everything had been razed to ashes. The places, the roads, the houses – everything and everyone he'd known were charred and ruined into indistinguishable distortion. Minutes ago he'd been walking down those very paths, and now all of it was gone. They hadn't passed Clifford's, but he'd caught a glimpse of fire raging up the fields. They'd turned on after that.

Even the streetlamps had winked out of life, as if they were sucked out by the death hanging heavily in the air. The unknown voice urged him forwards, but like all the other times Harry couldn't hear him. Nothing registered. He lifted his head slightly upwards and by some coincidence, he recognized the faded red ribbon tied to the lamp post. It fluttered feebly in the air, tattered and torn, yet it had survived the night's destruction when almost nothing had.

He'd thought he would be too tired to feel anything, but his heart gave a faint leap at the sight. Green eyes slowly regained their focus. He knew that place. He recognized the ribbon; he'd tied it there himself. It had been during one of his first few missions under Jack. Afterwards it'd been a place he came to frequent; he'd crossed this street thousands of times after in the past: turning left round the corner, occasionally infiltrating through the wall around the back for kicks -

The hand tightly grasping his took him round the bend, and suddenly, in that split second, everything froze.

 _It wasn't there._

The cottage, which had stood across junction with the lamp post hanging fluttering red ribbon, it wasn't there.

Next to it the picket-fence which led to the neighbour's garden was charred black. The cottage _wasn't there_. In the corner there were broken pots and feeble flowers, crushed and barely surviving. It wasn't there – the cottage was gone. It was collapsed, caved inwards with fire licking at the remaining debris.

Something sharp twisted in his gut. He choked, the last of his efforts to keep up fading. The hand tugging on his wrist pulled harder, but for the first time he yanked back, hard.

The man turned back to look at Harry. He wasn't anybody Harry recognized. The elder man's face was weary and covered with soot, and he had a desperate look in his eyes when he gently but firmly took Harry by the shoulders.

"Listen boy, we've got to get help okay? We need to get away from the fire. We won't last long there – "

He didn't understand a word the man was saying. He couldn't. All of a sudden his eyes were stinging, and his throat was constricting so hard it was difficult to breathe. By some miracle he summoned the strength and tore himself free to stumble up towards the ruin of the cottage. The sharp splinters were still crackling away as the embers of the fire devoured it, bizarrely similar to the merry crackle of the fireplace in the topsy-turvy living room he used to call his home. He stared at the shredded wood, the smoke blowing desolately in his face. Each breath rattled in his chest, unable to go up or down, his fingers tingling and shaking so badly. He didn't know what to do, and the thought scared him. He didn't dare to think about it, that _there was nothing he could do._

"Scrooge," he called. The sound echoed loud and clear in his mind, but even to his ears it was withering, it was dying. The smoke filled his nostrils and caught his lungs. He didn't have the energy to cough, he hardly had the energy to breathe. "Scrooge," he said. There had to be something he could recognize. Had to be something in the ashes, a hand, a pulse, _something._ Beneath the dirt, beneath the burning remnants. He kicked over a huge chunk of debris, drowning himself in a cloud of dust and smoke. In his mind he was screaming, tearing through the charred wood, finding a source, a clue to lead him to find the other. "Scrooge," he said again, numbly, but he simply stood there, doing nothing. His voice only grew fainter at each call, dying away in a horrible reflection of his hope.

The tears were fast stinging his eyes, clouding his world, but he swiped them away angrily. "Tom," Harry said abruptly, his voice growing louder. It was the first time he'd spoken the other's name since then. "Tom, you're somewhere here right?" His voice wavered. His lungs on fire like he was drowning. "Tom you're a wizard right?" His world shattered and burning, dead and unfeeling, "You can save him right?" ,blurred by tears, "Tom, can you help?"

There was no reply. The chill of the wind tackled the flames ferociously, but the embers refused to die. They would never die.

"I-I can't, I don't know _how,"_ he tried to say, hardly able to speak, hardly able to draw breath.

– "I-I'm sorry. _Please…_ just. Tom."

But nobody listened, nobody heard him. The world was cold and detached, without warmth without sun. It was shrouded deeply in the darkness where no light could penetrate, and for that single moment he wished that he could been trapped in that blanket too, because at least he wouldn't be alone.

…

-X-

 **A/N: For those interested, last scene was written with playing track "Tears in the Crowd" for inspiration.**

 **These chapters have been particularly difficult to write, as I tried to balance both action and emotion. Hope it turned out okay, and if you liked it please do drop me a review :P**

 **Concerns about the purpose of each character or event, and explanations about Voldemort's appearance etc. will be revealed over the next few chapters. Or at least, you'll be able to guess then. No worries, I've drawn out the story details, background, plot and timeline before writing this.**

Rating system:

:D for amazing

O for okay

X for terrible.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter ten is dedicated to these amazing people** _Phoenixx Rising, Owlfur, Blue Luver 5000, Scarlett Woman, Tortus, Cauchy, Ciara, Serna J and guests_ **:D**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, as usual.

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

They brought him to a shelter somewhere south to the nearest town. Many of the survivors were herded there, but most of them had been carted straight to the hospital. The authorities had yet to ascertain the number of casualties, but it was estimated that the majority of the village had perished in the fire.

To Harry's knowledge the orphanage had been burned down before anyone managed to escape. The building, like all others had been torn down and razed to ashes. The adults' faces were weary and fearful, and even though they tried to keep Harry out of it he heard discussions about terrorist attacks going on. Harry didn't say anything, but he knew none of them were able to recognize the truth. The attack hadn't been by non-magical people at all, it had been done by wizards.

Harry didn't speak the whole time he was brought there. Sometimes he stared out of a blurred window, sometimes he simply closed his eyes, but he never slept. His heart was a dug out chasm where it was hollow and empty and it _hurt._ He wanted to cry and rage but his body was too tired, too tired. No matter what he did he was sapped and drained of energy.

Over the last few hours, a nurse had taken care of most of his physical injuries, and they declared that he would be healing quickly. Under normal conditions Harry would have been hospitalized for a day or so to make sure he was recovering properly, but the nearest one was currently packed full with victims. They could barely afford to send out enough staff. As it was he was merely assigned to a caretaker, as was many others: and that was that.

Harry didn't mind, and he didn't care. Nothing mattered.

The police and investigators came the next day. Apparently they wanted to speak with the victims to get their account of the story. The victims were shuffled into a private room to get their interviews done. Only a handful of reporters were allowed in at any one time, and there was an air of muted dissent and frustrated mutterings as the rest were left crowding outside the room unable to take pictures other than a blank, shut wooden door.

As he was still considered a minor, Harry was excluded, so he was allowed to have his own 'privacy' upstairs. However, even if he was protected from the reporters, Harry could still hear everything that was going on. Some of the victims did not care to participate in the interview, but they were quite eager to share their opinions amongst themselves. More than once Harry heard descriptions of glowing skulls and serpentine tongues, and the coldness in his heart only clenched and solidified.

Unwilling to hear anymore of it, Harry got up and stalked away blindly. He went into the bathroom facing the back of the building and shut the door.

Frigid air from the outside world filtered in from the window and stung his cheek. Without thinking Harry grabbed the ledge with both of his hands and hoisted himself up. The ventilation window was large, and it allowed him ample room to slip through. At first he thought he could content himself with that, but below him he saw a tree stretching out its branches towards him, inviting him to slip down and join it on the ground below.

He barely gave it a second thought before he was already swinging through the open window for a small taste of freedom. He felt the sting of the rough bark against his palm, the familiar strain in his muscles. The dip in the branches as it bent slightly under his weight. And then he was leaping lightly onto the soft grass below, well cushioned under the shadow of the tree. Harry sat down on the ground and drew in his knees, where he rested his chin. Outside the warmth of the shelter the cold only grew, but far from biting him it only numbed him, just as he already was.

In the quietness under the tree's shadow, it was easier to seal himself in once more in his own world. A small yellow flower fluttered from its branches and landed softly on his shoulder. He thought of nothing, so he felt nothing. His heartbeat gradually faded back to its normal rhythm, and Harry stared blankly into the space as if he were wallowing in the realms of a dreamless sleep. But far from rejuvenating him he only grew worse, until even his hands grew tired from wrapping themselves around his legs.

Harry was eventually found around one hour later, staring blankly at the patch of grass tickling his shoes under the gentle breeze and oblivious to the blue crawling up the veins of his fingers and tinging his lips. A young woman which Harry recognized to be another volunteer worker exclaimed loudly when she saw him huddled at the foot of the tree, and she immediately rushed over, her voice shrill in the silence.

"There you are! Look at you, you're so cold! How long have you been outside?"

She said all kinds of things, concerned, feeling his temperature and rubbing his icy fingers between her palms in an effort to warm him. She pulled him to his feet and half-pushed half-guided him back indoors. Outwardly Harry didn't protest, but he simply let her.

"Most of the reporters have left already…" she told him in a reassuring tone as if it would make him feel better. "I understand if you're scared of them, they can be quite obnoxious sometimes… but it's too cold out here, you may fall ill. I'll get you a sweet, we'll get you more warmed up in no time, alright?"

Harry let the words wash over him in an unaffected manner. She ushered him quietly through the backdoor and immediately herded him up the stairs. They ascended together, her hand over his small back protectively as she chattered on in a concerned tone, him mechanically putting one foot before another. Harry didn't reply to anything she said, but she didn't seem to expect anything from him either. They all knew he was the 'traumatized kid'.

Was this how a traumatized person felt like? He had no idea. The psychiatrist who'd visited after the nurse had tended to him had briefly discussed possible symptoms with one of the caretakers, and he'd overheard them. General feelings of numbness, living in another world altogether. Having nightmares. In some cases, delusions and a stemming fear. But he didn't have nightmares, he simply never slept. He wasn't deluded. He wished he _was._ He didn't feel any fear, not even for fire. He was dug out, he was hollow, he was unfeeling. Could they heal him then?

"…if there is anything at all, you can tell one of us, okay?"

They came to a halt at the end of the room, and he was gently pushed to sit down. Warmth was working its way back into his system, but it hardly registered. Perhaps it was because part of his brain was frozen over, just like his heart. A hand patted him briefly on his head, tousling his hair. Harry blinked. He was back in one of the sleeping bags lined up in the corner. He'd watched dawn break through the window on his right hours before.

Something was pushed into his fingers, something smooth and small with slightly sharper edges. Warm brown eyes caught his, a flash of a smile, and then she was gone, bustling off to attend to her duties downstairs.

Slowly he looked down at his hands. His fingers unfolded to reveal a candy sitting in his palm, wrapped in brown and cream-coloured wrapping. The flavor was written in flashy stripes repeated across the wrapper: Caramel Macchiato.

A sharp pang pierced through his detached world. His eyes stung, and a single tear sploshed onto his hand holding the sweet.

He didn't see it fall, but the wetness tingled against his skin.

…

-X-

It took a long time for the older man who'd helped Harry out of the fire that night to give his full account of the story to the police. If Harry had been his usual self, he might have noticed that the man had been describing a green skull with a serpent's tongue hanging in the air to anyone who cared to listen before his turn came, but when he exited he looked strangely befuddled and annoyed.

"How many times must I repeat myself, I was sleeping!" he said agitatedly as someone stepped forwards to guide him back upstairs. "How am I supposed to know what happened _before_ my house blew up?!"

After that it was Harry's turn to speak with the police officers. To prevent intimidating him no reporters were allowed, and only two policemen were going to be in the room, along with one of the caretakers if Harry so wished. He was told they were going to ask him about his home, perhaps any living relatives. Harry nodded mutely to show he understood, but he said nothing.

Just like how he'd initially grown up in the orphanage, he had no one. There was no one left. And it wasn't hard to guess what they would do with him when they realized that he was from an orphanage. He'd simply be shipped off to another. It was the simplest and most reasonable conclusion.

The thought might have scared him, but he didn't even know what to feel anymore. Too much had happened, too fast. It could still be a dream, couldn't it? Why wasn't he waking up then? How long would it take for that to happen?

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

It was the same young woman who'd brought him upstairs and had given him the sweet. Harry shook his head slightly in a mute refusal. Present or not present, what difference could anyone make? Everything was still the same.

The blank wall stretched out in front of him for the past minutes remained grey. Then the door opened, and Harry was ushered in quietly. He kept his eyes locked on the floor, and when he entered he sat down hard on the chair drawn out for him and stared hard at the polished wooden table. He didn't want to look anywhere else. He wasn't sure if he could handle more pitying looks shot in his direction. He was too tired to afford to cry.

The door shut behind him. Harry saw a faint shadow settle over the table between them as an officer to his seat across him. Another stood in the corner near the door, as if trying to make himself as discrete as ever. There was a slight rustle of paper, and then a voice spoke. There was a strange abstract familiarity about it somehow.

"What is your name?"

A shuffling of papers, then an expectant silence, as the room waited for his answer. A slight uncomfortable shift of a foot to the next behind him.

Harry lifted his head slightly, dragging his gaze off the table to look at the officer.

But the man was no officer. It was Tom. Tom was so near, Tom was just sitting right across him. Harry looked at the other, his eyes studying familiar features, high cheekbones and dark green eyes, watching him like they'd been ever since they'd first met.

There was a faint smile about him somewhere, but Tom tilted his face slightly, warningly, as if indicating there were people listening by the door. As if in response, the officer standing by the door cleared his throat, and Harry's eyes followed the sound of the movement ever so slightly. A slight pause, then when he noticed that Tom was still waiting for his answer, he obliged.

"Harry," he replied in a monotonous voice.

How long did hallucinations remain, though? The psychiatrist had told his caretakers a few ways to help him snap out of his delusions. He told them to get him to talk, to treat him normally. But Harry didn't want to fight it. He wanted it to stay.

"Harry," Across the table, Tom continued to speak. His tone was calm as ever. "I understand you're still in shock over the recent events, but I have to ask you a few questions. You're not obligated to answer all of them, but we need your cooperation in order to help you find an existing or allocate a new guardian. Is that understood?"

The illusion remained. Harry nodded slightly, but he didn't tear his eyes away. If he did its edges would become blurry and a blank, unrecognizable face of the real police officer would take its place.

"I understand you're from Wool's Orphanage?" the officer – Tom, began.

Something squeezed his heart at the reminder. "Yes."

"It is true that you do not have a last name then?"

Tom's face flickered. In that single moment, like the protective circle he'd conjured by using the rune disappearing when he wasn't careful – and the face of a stranger looked up at him across the table. Harry shook his head slowly.

The officer frowned as he consulted the clipboard. He flipped a page. "Prospective guardians…" he mused to himself. Harry watched the other, fascinated like he was watching a dying candle flicker in the dark. Then the officer turned to face him, and his eyes were that familiar shade of green again, holding and comforting in their intensity.

"There's someone here on the list," the officer continued in a normal tone, completely unaware of Harry's illusion. "Address is house at the end of Middle Street. Goes by name of – "

"Tom," Harry said suddenly. "I know."

The other looked up to meet his eyes, but then the officer glanced down and nodded his head. Harry tried study the other's expression, but suddenly Tom was nowhere to be seen anymore. Harry's eyes raked each corner of the room, but the person sitting before him was a complete stranger. Tom wasn't there, and he had never been.

"Very good very good. It seems like it's all been settled then!" the officer exclaimed, sounding pleased. It was evident that he had been expecting many complications from Harry's case, and the convenience in which it could be settled relieved him. He gave Harry a smile, but Harry didn't return it. He was blinking rapidly, his pulse flitting irregularly and wondering if he'd finally succumbed to delusions after all. The officer didn't mind. He pulled off a sheet of paper and scribbled something on it.

"If you agree to the guardianship, do fill out this for me, we'll make the necessary arrangements for you as soon as possible alright?"

Harry said nothing. He didn't know what was real and what wasn't; everything felt abstract and unreachable. The officer passed him a pen, but he made no move to take it. He only watched, wide-eyed as the man pushed a piece of paper across the table to him.

The paper and pen were gently placed before him. Harry didn't see the words in bold printed as the title of the page, neither did he read through the paragraphs about consent and guardianship. Instead his eyes fell immediately on the faint words scrawled at the bottom of the paper, flashing gold and silver in a heartbeat before melting away.

Harry's heart gave a faint thump, alive for the first time since he'd been dragged out of the fire licking up the debris. The letters began to rearrange themselves a message only he could see, and even after they disappeared, he read and reread them over and over in his mind until he could memorize each word by heart.

 _Acre Park, midnight. I'll come for you._

…

-X-

 **A/N: I apologize for the sudden long pause without warning. I've been swamped with all sorts of assignments deadlines exams and activities. Frankly I'm worn out everyday and it's hard to find time for anything lately.**

 **Hope this chapter was up to par, and that you can spare me a thought :)**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks a million** _Owlfur, Ciara, Gothazon, Blue Luver5000, Phoenixx Rising, Lexisfightingrobots, Mongruad, Tortus, Scarlett Woman, Cauchy, SernaJ and guests._ **You guys are amazing, honestly you are :P Thank you for your lovely reviews, as always they've been read and cherished many times. This chapter is dedicated to you. Another angsty one, I'm afraid...**

DISCLAIMER: No no I own nothing. Now onwards with the story.

* * *

 **Chapter 11:**

The rest of the day passed in restless monotony.

After the police officers left, Harry had retired back to his sleeping bag facing the window upstairs. Outwardly he appeared no different than he usually did, but anxiety was brimming just below his calm surface. Now that he was back where he'd started, where nothing had changed, the fear that it had all been a mind-constructed illusion began to manifest itself. He wished he was able to keep that slip of paper, if only to reread Tom's message.

In response to his emotions his magic started to behave erratically. The lights on the landing flickered when he passed; the window latch became undone every few hours, causing fresh cold air would wander in through the crack. Thankfully hardly anyone noticed these changes, and even if they did no one mentioned anything.

Somehow with much difficulty Harry managed to sit through the tireless waiting until evening. Dinner was meat stew and oven-baked potatoes, and while most welcomed the warmth of food, Harry couldn't stomach more than a few bites before wandering back to the window to watch the darkening sky. The others thought better of disturbing him, and Harry was left relatively alone in the quietness of the deepening night.

Dinner, and afterwards a light supper was cleared, but Harry continued to watch the minutes come and go. His gaze remained trained on the fogging glass, but he'd been trained to rely on his internal clock ever since he was very young, and he could tell the time without looking over to the clock hanging on the wall.

Soon, he told himself. He would leave soon.

One by one the lights downstairs flickered off, and Harry heard a few people shuffling upstairs as they conversed in quiet voices. For most of them it would be their last night staying here before they were brought somewhere else; some were waiting for relatives to pick them up over the next few days. Harry was expected to stay the week before the papers were legalized, as he was told, but Harry knew nothing of that sort was going to happen. Providing everything that happened in the room with the officer hadn't been a hallucination by his mind, Harry guessed that the whole conversation had been a ruse to get him to see the message without being detected. After all, if there _were_ going to be legal papers at all there was no reason for Tom to come for him that very night.

Finally eleven o' clock came and passed. Most of the workers had retired, but there was still a single light coming from the kitchen downstairs. Slowly Harry stretched out one leg, easing his cramped muscles. In a way he was reminded of how he used to sneak out of the orphanage, from a room full of sleeping occupants. He cast his eyes out of the window one last time, and idly noticed that beyond the fogging glass white-crystal flakes were fluttering softly from the sky. It was snowing.

Silent as a shadow Harry got up and padded downstairs. The snoring of a few elderly men drowned out any noise he might have made. He paused a little at the last step, back pressed against the wall as he waited. There was the tinkering sound of spoons coming from the kitchen, where the light was still on. The door was closed, though.

Like hundreds of times he'd done in the past, Harry flitted across the hallway quietly and reached the backdoor. It was only when his hand was already on the doorknob, brass cool against his skin with the cutting chill whistling through the crack that something in him paused.

He'd already come this far, so it would be foolish to turn back without checking. But suddenly a crushing well of uncertainty gripped him, and he didn't know what to expect or believe.

What would happen when he reached Acre Park? What did he expect? He could see his fear growing, running down the end of the street to the designated meeting place to be met by emptiness, him stumbling around lost in the dark, calling out and receiving no answer… Had all of it merely been another symptom to be expected? A mind illusion?

It was just as well that a slight creak from the kitchen door took the decision out of his hands. He hesitated long enough to see the shifting patterns of light on the floor before making a split second dash. Following through his instincts, Harry opened the door and slipped out through the tiniest fraction he could manage. Then once outside he spun round and shut the door cautiously, ignoring the frigidness biting into his hands as he slowly counted to ten in his heart.

A snowflake fell from the skies to land lightly on his hand while. It tasted like a different sort of cold, fresh and comforting. Harry's breath jarred up in his throat, as if frozen by the beginning of winter. With a jolt of his heart he suddenly remembered it was the first snow of the year.

He stepped away from the unmoving door. The fluttering white crystals dotted the sky in a faint imitation of stars, dancing to the rhythm of the wind. In detached wonderment Harry tilted back his head to watch the snowflakes perform a loose spiral down to earth, but at that moment something brushed across his mind.

He froze. The caress of the wind bit his cheek and brought dust which stung his skin. Snow fell softly around him, gathering gently on his hair, his eyelashes. But the silent wind spoke in his ears.

Behind him, something shifted. So soft, so vague like the flitting shadows cast by the falling snow, that he hardly would have known. But he could sense it, a faint touch in the back of his mind, and it called his name. It prickled at his heart; something strangely warm and painful and bitter. Swallowing, Harry turned around slowly, one foot at a time, and the hard winter-bitten earth crunched beneath his feet as he did. His breath remained caught in his throat even though he remembered to breathe; and he tore his gaze away from the powdered grass swaying in the light wind. He raised his eyes.

He was simply standing there. Tom. Wearing his normal black cloak dusted with snow, under the tree Harry had took refuge under earlier that afternoon, simply waiting. Tom said he would turn up, and he just did. No disguise, no elaborate plans of escape, no useless assurances. Like the scent of fresh snow, it tasted like liberation, like freedom. The sheer simplicity of it made a laugh choke up in Harry's throat.

"I-I thought you wouldn't come," Harry spoke first, breaking the silence with a half-laugh.

Tom made no move to step forwards. He just watched Harry, hooded green eyes saying nothing. The snow dotted his hair and cloak, he didn't move. He was like a silent statue standing there in the backyard, only his brilliant green eyes watching him. And perhaps because of that Harry decided to take the first step forwards. He reached the other within two short strides, coming to a halt an arm's length away. And without planning to, he threw his arms around the other's middle, warmth blurring his eyes against the dust of snow.

"I _really_ thought you wouldn't come," Harry said again.

For a brief moment the sensation of a hand resting on his shoulder tingled on his skin, so real as if it really could have been, but it was never there. The illusion painted by his mind blurred and faded. Harry broke away first, and he looked up and grinned at the other despite everything. Tom's face remained impassive, but the brush in the privacy of his mind painted a softer edge to those hardened emerald eyes. Tom simply held his stare for the briefest of moments, and a faint prickle tingled against Harry's scar at the gesture. It was as if Tom was reading his mind. Then:

"I thought it'd be wiser to wait here," Tom offered to the unasked question.

The sudden unexpected answer caused the words Harry had wanted to say to be caught in the back of his throat. Harry blinked, the powder of snow on his eyelashes falling away to melt against his skin. He stretched his lips into an imitation of a smile and tried to clear his throat.

"Aren't you a genius then," Harry retorted, but while his tone was deceptively light his eyes remained serious.

And this time when Tom looked down at him, his smile was not painted by Harry's imagination.

…

-X-

From that day onwards, Harry left both Muggle and Wizarding world for good. All that existed for him was the little ruined cottage at the end of Middle Street, with the Wyr Tree summoned to its full height guarding the main gate.

Tom must have set up certain wards in place, for no one ever came around save the first day. One of the investigators in charge had gotten as close as three feet within the broken fence before he'd abruptly turned back to walk up the road, his face one of utter confusion. After that no one had ever approached the house at the end of Middle Street.

Like all those days before he'd fallen out with Tom, Harry now spent most of his time stretched across the floor in the living room, sketching graphs and charts assigned by his mentor. Tom never raised the topic about the attack, and so Harry never elaborated, even if the psychiatrist had previously told Harry that talking about it would help. Instead Tom compensated by piling Harry with loads of reading, tasks and homework, both in theory and practical. The diversion did Harry much good though, and Harry soaked it all up like a sponge. If he was tired he wouldn't think, and if he didn't think his heart wouldn't ache.

Despite his previous outgoing nature, Harry was content to stay indoors all the time, poring over strange tomes and texts Tom had procured for him. He became considerably quieter and more withdrawn, hardly asking as many questions as he did in the past. Tom was mostly away during the daytime, where Harry would find a take-out meal left on the table for him. It was the nights Harry came to look forwards to, where Tom would teach him the spells he didn't manage to muster, or any theory he had questions with. Those were familiar routines, and in a way he could pretend the last week hadn't happened.

However, although there were many tomes focusing especially on the topic of runes, Harry never consulted Tom on any of them. He simply avoided them all. The memory of him using the Forsildan rune still burned nightmarishly in his mind, and even though he knew he was being illogical by giving up on that particular subject, his courage had all been used up for the moment.

As the days passed, Harry lost count of the days he lived in Middle Street. He never left the cottage door; there was never need for him to. He didn't even explore the whole house, only living in the main hall, slumping over the sofa – and mostly sprawled on the cold floor beside the small fireplace. He knew that outside the winter had brewed harsher than ever, and he heard the wind rattling ferociously at the windows, but he barely saw anything of the outside world. One day when the flurries of snow had dotted the window panes so closely together that he could barely make out the world outside of it, Harry had simply given up and stopped trying.

There were times when he knew Tom wanted to say something about his abnormal behavior. He never caught him at it, but he felt the sidelong glances, the taint of uncertainty lurking at the back of his mind that Harry had now learnt to recognize as Tom's emotions. But Tom never broached the topic, so life went on as usual.

It wasn't until one late afternoon when Tom had come back from whatever errands which had been keeping him, when he finally broached the topic they'd been avoiding all the while. At first he didn't mention anything about the attack, but instead he told Harry they would be going out. Harry was faintly surprised at that.

"Where to?" he asked.

It seemed like Tom wasn't about the answer, but perhaps he recalled that it was a rare occasion for Harry to volunteer questions nowadays, because he obliged a few seconds later. "Wool's," he replied simply.

Harry felt an icy fist drop to the bottom of his stomach, but he didn't say anything. Tom always had a reason for whatever he did, and he wasn't about to argue with Tom over it. But at the same time he could feel bile churning in his gut, and an unknown fear gripped at his heart and clamoured to freeze like an icy block in his stomach. He wasn't sure if he could be brave enough to go.

Nevertheless, Harry moved to store away his charts and books mutely (Tom tolerated nothing less than tidy). Then with less speed than he could normally manage, Harry went about to gather his winter jacket and boots before leaving.

Even if Harry wasn't aware of it, it was the first time he'd stepped out of the cottage for five days. While he had been holed up in the house, the rest of the world had plunged into the first week of winter without his noticing. Pulling his jacket tight around himself, Harry took a deep breath of the warm air in the cottage before crossing over the threshold.

The first thing that hit him was the chilly blast of the wind. The second was snow.

There was so much of it, piled all around the garden like a thick white blanket. It covered the street, piling so high that it was half the level of the low-fence, and it completely buried the small shrubs and hedges growing in the garden. Where all the other trees had shriveled to leave only bare branches, the Wyr Tree was still thriving, and the sparkles of white dusting the silvery leaves only added to its quiet majesty. Lifting his eyes, he noticed that the roof ledge looked as if it had been coated by thick white icing, with an alarming amount of snow gathering at the edge, ready to slip off at the slightest nudge.

When he was taking in all of this, Tom was watching him again like he always did, but Harry made no comment on the other's behaviour. "It's changed a lot," he offered instead, diverting his gaze to the snow-coated earth.

"More than you could imagine," Tom replied softly.

They went out of the gates together, crossing over the low-fence which now was little better than a threshold. The chilly wind bit at every inch of skin that wasn't covered. Harry felt a sharp prickling pain on his eyelids whenever he tried to look up, but despite the discomfort he found himself observing his surroundings the best he could.

He'd grown up in these areas, crossing each fence and street more than three times a day. He could navigate twisting alleys and high walls and chain-linked fences to access the nearest short-cut like no other local could even follow through. But now after the ashes had cleared and been blown away by the wind, with the debris silently buried by the snow, he couldn't recognize a single landmark. There were steep inclines he couldn't remember them ever existing, strange wide expanses of ground that must have held a building or another.

He could hardly guess how to get to their destination now that so much had changed, so he only followed behind Tom, speechless and subdued. Everywhere they went seemed exactly the same: a blanket of white. Many times he saw decrepit structures that must have been houses he'd known, but he couldn't name them, and he couldn't name the streets either.

They kept on walking for a full ten minutes. His boots kept sinking into the slush, making process difficult; and the razor sharp wind partially blinded him. After a while he simply hung his head and dedicated his attentions to Tom's boots which left prints in the snowing ground. He followed their steps and counted their rhythm unconsciously, as if it were the only temporary distraction he could find to distract himself from the hollow abyss growing inside him. And then, quite, abruptly, Tom stopped. A hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder, a gesture Harry still didn't quite know what to make of.

"We're here," he told Harry.

Harry looked up from the ground, and suddenly he found that he could recognize his surroundings at once. Having to accommodate a large number of children, Wool's had always been one of the larger buildings in that district. It was the only multistoried building in the whole street. Harry had never been particularly fond of it, for the orphanage had always looked little more than a slab of cement from the outside, but now it looked if possible even worse. It was still there, but only as a horrifying skeletal structure looming out, black and burned out and dark. Harry turned his back on the sight violently, the chill crackling up his spine threatening to hold him in place. But at the gesture, he saw what was lying across the remains of the orphanage, and in a flash he understood why Tom had brought him out.

Rising out of the snow a few feet away was a huge grey stone. When he got closer, Harry could see that there were words carved on it, from the top to the bottom. Coated with dull gold, they read: _In remembrance of the victims who perished in the fire, 30 November 1990._

There was a low fence separating the memorial from the desolate street, painted the same shade of white as the snow. Harry stared at it, feeling a lump grow at the back of his throat. A sense of helplessness gripped at his heart, but then Tom came to stand directly behind him.

"I'll wait for you here," the other offered quietly.

Not trusting his voice, Harry only swallowed and nodded, before starting forwards on his own. The door to the fence was once more stuck shut due to the piling snow, so Harry simply walked over it to approach the memorial.

There were countless white flowers lying at the foot of the stone, their petals creamy against the stark white background. As he neared it he saw that below the gold words there were scrawls of names carved into stone, listing them in alphabetical order from left to right, forming four long columns. There could have been hundreds of them. Harry's eyes scanned over each of them, and even if he didn't recognize them each name sent a pang to his heart. He went through the list a second time, his heart feeling as though it were frozen numb, every beat was faint and hapless like the whirling flurries of snow unable to settle on the ground, but he didn't even know what to search for.

"I told you that you should have given me your name, didn't I," Harry muttered.

The wind picked up, battering at the feeble roses, scattering them all over the place. A few petals came loose and skittered away. His eyes burned hot against his eyelids. None of the names told him who the man who'd once cared for him was, yet it was solely that name which mattered. He'd finally come to pay his last respects in the end, but still he never knew the other's identity.

Even still he came to a halt before the stone and bowed his head, feeling the wild wind run through his hair like a forgotten whisper of a caress.

"I wanted to say thank you," Harry began quietly to himself before he lost the courage to. "I know I always said your house was hardly inhabitable, and the second-floor still is… I mean was," he caught himself. "But however topsy-turvy it may be, it was still the one place I liked the best here, so thanks for letting me stay. They were some of the best times I've had around here."

He paused, the burn in his throat catching his voice whole. The names on the stone merged to form blurry swipes of grey. "I know, I was literally nothing but trouble. You say it like you don't mean it, but I know it's true. I-I got into a load of mess all the time, but you always helped me out."

His breath hitched. He cast his eyes to the wind, turning away from the cold, unfeeling stone which stood erected before him, forced himself to continue. "And, just… thank you for taking care of me. For scolding and nagging me about homework and stuff, even if they never worked. For all the food even though I was joking when I said I was always half-starved. Especially the sweets, too, and – "

He trailed off. There was still so much more, so so much that he couldn't say. The new cushion and blanket which materialized ' _from the musty store, way before you were born_ ' when he started to stay longer. His spot on the sofa which always mysteriously remained free of clutter despite the messy state of the living room. The sweet jar which was always full even though Scrooge never liked any of them. So many little things noticed and heartfelt but simply went unsaid, until it was too late and pointless to acknowledge them at all.

The tears were coming now, thick and fast. He clenched shut his eyes, feeling the brief warmth of them trickling down his cheek, to be immediately frozen against his cold skin. "Thank you for giving me a second chance when I didn't deserve it," he said finally, his voice unbearably small. "I'll try to be good, and… I-I'll miss seeing you."

He opened his eyes. He had nothing to offer, no white roses or gifts. Even the buried earth showed no sign of life, no whisper of a peeking wildflower. He patted down his jacket pocket, only to find a small Caramel Macchiato sweet given to him at the shelter the day he left for good.

He had nothing else on him to give, so he took the sweet and threw it into the pile beside the white flowers. It settled there among the little bed of roses, unmoving. And then Harry turned his back on the grey stone, and began his walk back to the low fence where Tom was waiting for him.

…

 **A/N: Another angsty chapter I'm afraid. Let me know what you think in the box below :)**

 **Thanks for the encouragement. It's nice to get some reprieve from hectic life. :D I'm too tired to write anything else at the moment, so yeah. I appreciate it a lot.**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**

 **P.S.: Inspirational tracks for those interested:** _'The Call' by Regina Spektor, 'Sometimes Love Just Isn't Enough' by Charice._ **I don't know why, but I was listening to these two when writing this.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks a million to my amazing reviewers:** _SernaJ, Ciara, Azniro-Yes Me, Blue Luver5000, Yosbones, breannapierson1990, Lexisfightingrobots, Tortus, Owlfur, Gothazon, Scarlett Woman, Cauchy, Pisces Lei-Fur, Phoenixx Rising, choclatbandit, IrisBlossoms and guests._ **Here's chapter 12 for you guys, hope you enjoy! :P**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothin' nothin' nothing at all.

* * *

 **Chapter 12:**

They ended up sitting under the Wyr Tree facing the evening stars. Granted it was cold, but Tom didn't seem to mind the plummeting temperature, and so Harry was determined to ignore the biting chill as well. Besides Tom had bought him two pies for dinner, and while they quickly cooled in the middle of winter, the food still helped to keep the worst of the chill at bay.

Tom had not spoken ever since they returned, which was normal, but a fragment of Harry's old personality must have returned, because he discovered that after the past few days he really did not miss the silence that fell between them.

"Tom," he said presently.

It was how most of their conversations had always begun, with Harry first checking if Tom was actually listening before proceeding. As always Tom gave no reply, but Harry could sense the slight shift in his attention even though the other did not turn around to look at him.

"How do you always know what to do?" Harry asked curiously.

Faint amusement coloured Tom's lips in the half-light. "I would say the term you're searching for is 'the right thing' to do," Tom corrected. "And no, I don't always."

"It's funny you'd say that considering how smug you sounded," Harry retaliated, shooting Tom a half-hearted glare. A small lull of silence followed before he fell serious again. "But you really do," Harry said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You knew to wait for me in the backyard instead of Acre Park that night. You just let me be for the past few days, and you knew to bring me out today." Harry stopped at the vague ineloquence of his sentence, but Tom seemed to understand what he was getting by.

"Is this an expression of gratitude?" Tom said amusedly. He turned his head to catch Harry's mildly disgruntled expression, and in that moment serious dark green eyes seemed to sparkle with mirth.

Harry settled on rolling his eyes. "Well I could say yes if you feel so pleased about it," he said, trying to sound as insincere as he could about it, "but I'm also curious. Can you by any chance read other's emotions or something?"

His wild guess must have hit something in the dark, because he once more could illogically sense a change in Tom. The other's countenance remained as relaxed and light-hearted as ever, but an illogical comprehension told him otherwise. As if sensing that the game had been given away, Tom turned away abruptly, his gaze lingering on the silvery leaves whispering overhead.

"It is possible for a trained wizard to read another's mind," he replied instead. "In fact, it is a highly practiced and revered form of art."

Harry frowned over the reply, mulling over the words before he came to a conclusion. "But not emotions," he realized. "Only another's thought processes?"

Tom cast Harry a sidelong glance, looking thoughtful. He turned away to study the odd glimmer of the trees, the faint glow from its flowers accentuated by the snow crystals. To Harry who was still waiting for a reply, the silence seemed to stretch for an abnormally long time to be considered as a polite conversation. Then Tom shrugged. "I suppose perceptiveness is a good trait," he said at last.

This time Harry didn't bother to hide his exasperation. "There you go again," he pointed out, barely hiding the edge of sarcasm creeping into his tone. "Why can't you just say 'How perceptive of you, very good'?"

"Why can't you just say thank you instead of constructing such a curious question?" Tom countered without missing a beat.

Harry considered that seriously, and he had to begrudgingly admit there was some point to that.

"We're more similar than I thought," Harry admitted in a disappointed manner jokingly.

At that, Tom shot him a knowing half-smile, as if he knew something Harry didn't.

…

-X-

By the next morning Tom wasn't around again. Harry felt oddly let down at that, as if he'd expected some change in routine after yesterday, but he went over to the shelves to pull out his books again.

Strangely, however no matter how hard he looked Harry couldn't locate any of the tomes he'd been reading over the past few days: the books on magical theories and Charms were gone. Instead Harry found that most of them were Ancient Runes once more, and another tome about warding. Harry frowned, wondering if he'd somehow managed to misplace them before knowing better. It was obvious that it was Tom's doing, that the other wanted him to focus on runes instead of other branches of magic.

The thought was slightly discomfiting, like a reminder in the form of a sharp jolt back to earth. Tom had promised to teach him, but when they'd first sealed that promise Harry had given his word to do something for the wizard in return. Tom had chosen him because of his skills in both magic and thieving. It wasn't hard to piece together Tom's goal for him in the end.

Even if he was getting comfortable with this routine, Tom had his own agenda. And Harry wasn't certain about what was going to happen to him after he fulfilled it.

Abruptly Harry remembered something, and he slipped his hand into his inner jacket pocket to draw out the note he'd received from Tom the night before the attack. It was still intact, folded and rumpled at its edges. Harry unfolded it carefully so as not to tear it, but to his surprise he realized that the message had disappeared. There was no sign of the curious rune whatsoever, much less any instructions from Tom. Harry flipped the paper to the other side and stared hard at it under the light but to no avail. There were no marks left on it, nothing to hint that the message had even been there at all.

Not wanting to put it off again, Harry summoned an inked quill (it was the only writing utensil available in the house) and sketched out the rune on the paper. His results were blotchy and ugly to say the least, but at least it was a simple enough design in which he could vaguely manage.

" _Forsildan!"_ he said determinedly, the words leaving his lips in a quiet hiss.

Once more nothing happened. Harry tried his best to recall the exact circumstances in which he'd performed the rune that night when he'd been confronted by the wizards. His heart missed a beat when he dredged up the nightmarish details he'd mostly buried, but then he suddenly remembered the image of the rune burning into his mind, scrawled messily into earth by bloodied fingers - then bright blue and pulsing against the dark.

Was that it then? Was it only the image burning in his mind that counted, and not the drawing itself?

With all the concentration he could muster Harry summoned the image of the rune into his mind once more, a circle with a line running through its middle. He forced himself to concentrate on the markings, to trace it over in his mind's eye.

" _Forsildan!"_ he cried again.

And almost immediately, all the lights in the house blacked out. The fire in the grate died.

Harry jumped back, startled by the unexpected outcome. He looked around in the semi-darkness wildly, but there was no pulsing blue circle. He saw a strange flashing light at the window, and he immediately crossed over to investigate: but it only proved to be the Wyr Tree, which silvery leaves were still rustling merrily in the cold wind.

He turned to move back, but suddenly something caught his eye. Harry neared the window, almost pressing his face against the cool glass. It misted over by his breath, but he quickly rubbed it away. Then he held his breath, and stared. It was still there.

A strong pulsing blue line now circled the whole garden, running even through the snow-laden trees which branches intruded the house backyard. Heart in his mouth Harry quickly reached the front door and slipped outside bare-footed. The snow stung his skin, but Harry was too preoccupied to care. He shut the door behind him and turned to follow the pulsing blue line, bright against the dazzling white landscape.

-X-

Harry returned to the house five minutes later, his feet like frozen blocks of ice, feeling more puzzled than ever.

It had led him for a full circle round the house, sometimes extending slightly beyond the boundary. The house was a perfect square within the large circle. But even though it was still there, pulsing brighter than the little sunlight that seemed to penetrate that part of the world, Harry couldn't see what difference it made at all. Besides extinguishing the lights the rune had done nothing more.

He shot a look at the lamp hanging overhead, willing it to light up again, but the light refused to obey him despite never refusing him in the past. He went over to the fireplace, but there was not a single ember left to spark the flames back to life. It had been snuffed out completely, and during the time Harry had spent outside, he'd accidentally let the cold air wander in – and now even the wood was cold and useless.

Half-annoyed, half curious, Harry curled up on the stiff-backed chair and hugged his knees to himself tighter as he tried to regain some warmth. He was going to assume that the rune would erase any effects of magic within the vicinity of the circle cast, but the Wyr tree had remained indifferent, and it was nothing if _not_ magic. And while his magic had run out quickly the first time round, this time the circle continued to hover curiously around the house like a protective shield, and no matter what Harry did to distract himself it wouldn't go away.

Tom returned from his errands by late evening. By then Harry was already crouching on the hearth rug by the stone-cold fireplace, shivering. Multiple tomes were scattered all over the place before where he sat, all of them denoting a strange rune or another, but none contained what Harry was looking for. Harry looked up with chattering teeth when Tom came to a halt right before him, and Harry couldn't remember seeing the other look more amused.

"Found what you're looking for?" Tom asked sardonically, with a lifted eyebrow to match.

Harry gritted his teeth, both for the cold and in annoyance. "I-If I d-did I wouldn't be h-here would I?" He gestured helplessly at the scattered pile of books by the dead fireplace. Tom nodded mockingly then turned to leave. If the draught in the room bothered him he didn't show it. Harry remembered the other's uncanny tolerance for cold and decided to pocket his pride immediately.

"I cast the _Forsildan_ rune!" Harry blurted after the other's retreating back. "And I-I don't know how to reverse it. Can you do it?" He said the last part extremely quickly.

Merlin, his breath even fogged out of his mouth when he spoke. It wasn't even like a thin wisp either. If he sat here any longer he'd soon become a snowman.

Tom turned back to cast him a look. "It can't be reversed unless the castor wills it to be," he replied offhandedly. Privately Harry deducted a bit of smugness in that sentence.

Harry had to fight the despairing look from rising to his face. "But what if I _already_ willed it to be?" Harry persisted, trying but failing not to sound as desperate as he felt. "I was _willing it to be_ the whole afternoon!"

Tom didn't seem to be the least bit fazed. In fact he seemed strangely pleased about this development of things. "Then keep on trying," he said with a mask of encouraging innocence. "I'm sure you'll get there soon."

"Not if I'm a solid block of ice!" Harry shot after Tom's retreating back. But Tom only waved his concerns aside, and Harry watched in utter disbelief when Tom wordlessly disappeared to the back of the house. His scar prickled and blossomed into a mild headache soon after. Harry felt a distinct sense of pleasure, but it was soon consumed by his own irritability.

Tom emerged from the kitchen half a minute later. For a long moment, Harry stared up at him not saying anything; he knew it was hopeless to wheedle Tom when the other had set his mind on doing something else, and he was pretty certain that Tom was not going to offer help of any sort. It was like the Arithmancy charts all over again: to Tom it was simply 'logic' and Harry was supposed to figure out how things worked by himself. On normal occasions Harry wouldn't have minded, but he was currently, literally freezing off his backside.

Tom held his gaze unflinchingly, dark green eyes clashing with bright green, unyielding. Then, after a long pause, Tom reached out and plucked a small box from beneath the folds of his cloak to throw it at Harry. Harry was so surprised that despite his reflexes he barely managed to catch it. He snatched it up as if wary that Tom would take it away and studied the box. It was a box full of matches.

Harry looked at the box incredulously, before raising his head to look at Tom, who shrugged.

"It was in the kitchen all this while," the other said. "Beats me how the mind works, really."

-X-

…

"Tom," Harry began, a little hesitantly.

They were sitting in the living room with the only source of light and heat being the crackling fire. It had been five hours since the other had returned. Tom seemed content to stay that way, his dark eyes hooded as they gazed off into the distance, probably wallowing in some deep thoughts beyond Harry's comprehension. All this time Harry had been poring over this book or another, flicking through pages and pages of runes which grew steadily more and more complicated, but he never found what he sought. The _Forsildan_ Rune was not in any of them.

Even so Harry kept on looking until he'd finished combing every page of three huge tomes for the picture of the rune. He knew Tom would never offer him any answers unless he'd exhausted every source to search for them. But when he finished scanning through the last page of Ancient Runes Vol. III, Harry bit back a heavy sigh and shut the heavy book lid with a dull 'thud'.

Tom didn't respond the first time, but Harry knew the other had heard him perfectly well despite the other's lack of reaction which indicated otherwise.

"Tom," Harry tried again. "The _Forsildan_ Rune isn't in any of these."

Dark eyes flickered over to study him for a moment before moving back towards the shadows cast by the fire on the walls opposite. "It isn't," Tom agreed quietly.

Harry would have been aghast at the reply, but something at the back of his mind held him back. A spark of interest and curiousity unlike his own.

"Why not?" Harry ventured. His voice seemed loud in the still silence. When Tom made no move to reply, he continued, "I would have thought such a simple rune could be found quite easily."

"But that's the crux of the matter," Tom said without missing a beat. His words washed over Harry smoothly, picking off where he'd left leaving no pause between. "It wasn't just a simple rune. Tell me Harry, how many times did you try to cast the rune before succeeding for the first time?"

The first time? A flash of a burning blue circle exploding outwards, roaring fire, figures in black knocked backwards, an anguished cry. Harry shivered involuntarily at the abrupt reminder, but quickly regained himself. "Countless times," he responded in a neutral tone, hoping Tom wouldn't notice the slight inflection in his voice. "But I thought it was because I'm new to practicing magic."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "And how long was the duration it took for you to succeed?"

Harry hesitated, not knowing what to expect. "A few days?" he said uncertainly.

"A few days," Tom repeated. Dark eyes came to rest heavily on him, pinning him in their intense stare like they always did. "Harry, records show that the few wizards who ever succeeded in casting the rune over the century learnt it over years of practice."

Harry didn't feel very convinced, but Tom continued to look at him steadily. It was much like the night Tom had revealed to him about the magical world; the quiet matter-of-fact tone which twisted Harry's belief into his own, without question. The sensation sent a slight chill crackling up his spine which had nothing to do with the winter outside.

"So… you're saying I'm some sort of… magic prodigy," Harry fumbled for words.

"Not a prodigy," Tom disagreed. "A prodigy is born with the ability to use his magic to its full extent, morphing it into his will despite little or no basic education. You on the other hand simply possess a startling amount of magic which you allow to run rampant all the while. And in the occasions your need and emotions call for it, tendrils of your 'spare' magic will spiral out in accordance to your will. But you have never fully utilized your powers."

The intense gaze prickled against his skin, and Harry felt a flicker of pain behind his scar. He swallowed and looked away into the red embers dancing on glowing hot coal. "Wow, what a waste," he offered, trying to sound more light-hearted than he felt.

Tom said nothing, but then Harry's brow furrowed as he tried to connect the dots. "Hang on," he blurted suddenly, "come to think of it why did you leave me that note with the rune in the first place?" he questioned. He turned his gaze to Tom, who looked completely unfazed. "Why leave me the rune when so few could manage to cast it, even after years of practice? What did you hope for me to accomplish from it?" The faint gold words etched on the paper were abruptly brought back to the forefront of his mind, and Harry felt bombarded by so many questions he hadn't thought to consider before. "What did you mean by using it to hide?"

The other waited calmly for Harry to finish his barrage of questions before beginning. "Do you know what the purpose of the _Forsildan_ rune is?"

Dark eyes prompted him to answer, and feeling a strange reluctance in his gut, Harry complied. "Not really," he answered. He paused, but when Tom showed no intention of continuing before he got Harry's full answer, Harry continued. "The first time I cast it successfully was during the attack," he admitted. Somehow, saying it out aloud in the firelit room with Tom sitting across him didn't seem so daunting. "I… drew it in some earth, and the circle came – well, alive and blasted my pursuers back."

It didn't seem to be the answer Tom was expecting. "And then?" the other prompted, a slight slash between his brows.

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Harry looked away again, his scar throbbing to life. "They tried to cast spells against me but they all failed," he said, trying not to sound as affected as he felt. The almost forgotten cold feeling in a buried recess of his heart resurfaced once more, crushing down everything else. It made it hard to breathe. "Then – I got dizzy, and the circle shrunk and disappeared. That's all."

Tom steepled his fingers. He seemed to be deep in thought. "Contrary to what you might believe, the rune has no expulsion effect," Tom said, when Harry continued to wait for a reply. "What you did was a mark of your uncontrolled magic which simply lashed out in bidding of your will." Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Tom forestalled him. "The rune was named _Forsildan,_ and quite accurately so. It means null, nothingness. Within that circle you cast, no magic could exist within it. A wand would become as futile as a wooden stick. No spells nor unleashing of power can alter its effects."

Tom's eyes flickered to the fire, and the light above them which remained unlit. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

"The Wyr Tree?" he asked.

Tom smiled a little at that, but it held little humour. "Both the rune and the Wyr Tree share the same roots, Harry. One cannot affect the other."

He didn't understand, but there was a more pressing question on his mind. "Why did you leave me the note on that day?" he persisted, his eyes searching the other but finding no comprehension.

"Because you'll need it to fulfill the promise you made to me," Tom replied, flatly. His eyes clashed with Harry's own, even and unyielding. As if daring Harry to contradict him. Like a small pebble falling into a quiet lake, the still surface was shattered, leaving hard and choppy waves, roiling and defensive. Harry blinked at the sudden incomprehensible change and studied the other again, but the other looked as composed as ever. Briefly he wondered if he was imagining things, adding brushes of emotions layered beneath the surface where they weren't supposed to exist at all, but still he was left hovering, uncertain.

Confusion whirled in his mind in the form of bizarre swims of colours, flashing images of the hem of a black robe disappearing round the corner at Mr. Higgin's, a strange note held in his fingers; black-robed men swarming around the village, fire – pain – and the glowing green skull with a serpent's tongue in the sky. Harry looked back at Tom sharply, but the other seemed to have moved on from the conversation.

"You'll find what you need in the second book from the left on the fourth shelf," Tom said in a clipped manner, all previous faint light-heartedness gone and over in a heartbeat. "Study it tonight, and you'll be having a lesson on control with me tomorrow. We'll be making our move two weeks from now."

 **A/N: Hurrah for my submission of my most major assignment! XD That aside, I hope you enjoyed the slightly more light-heartedness in this chapter as compared to the last :p**

 **Do tell me what you think! Oh - and cookies for my 100th reviewer... ;)**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**


	13. Chapter 13

**Million thanks to** _Grouplobster, Abel Sephaos, Scarlett Woman, Alpha Rynn, SernaJ, Danneyland, Phoenixx Rising, Owlfur, Azniro-Yes Me, Blue Luver5000, lucifer porter, Cauchy, Tortus, Ciara, Delicious darkness, Cocoa and guests._ **Massive congratulations to** _The Other World_ **for being my 100th reviewer; you've earned a cookie! (Fat lot of good it does you I suppose, except perhaps a load of smugness ;p) But in the far off future, if you may be interested, I can write you short backstories... like how Harry first met Scrooge etc. I may have a cookie-trade-story day. Sound good? :D**

 **Apologies for the tardiness, hope this chapter makes up for it: and chapter 13 is dedicated to the wonderful people mentioned above. Thank you so much!**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothin', nothing at all.

* * *

 **Chapter 13:**

"Is that a new one?"

Harry's eyes flickered up briefly to note another lock sitting on the edge of the table, before turning his attention back to the current one he was trying to break.

"It's the last," Tom affirmed, his dark eyes taking in the strewn metal pieces over the floor which noted Harry's progress, and the half-open ledger with barely legible words scribbled within them. He sat down across the other, watching Harry silently.

The only sound in the room was the tinkering sound of steel scraping at metal, then there was an audible _click_ , and the lock Harry was working on swung open. For a moment Harry simply blinked, trying to restore his ciliary muscles after working cross-eyed for almost an hour. Then he shrugged, grabbed a quill and scribbled another line into the ledger. He picked it up, read through it again with utter concentration, before dropping the ledger back on the floor and allowing himself a stretch.

"The last one you said?" Harry confirmed again, picking up the conversation where it'd been left as if there hadn't been an eight-minute gap of silence in between.

"It's the tenth day," Tom said by way of reply.

Harry said nothing, he simply nodded. Four more days to a fortnight, and the day after was the day of the plan.

It had been a trying week for Harry. True to Tom's word, over the past few days or so they'd covered a whole range of training, ranging from practical lessons in basic Defense, Charms and Transfiguration to runes, and following that his practice in lock-breaking. Tom often took Harry's practical magic learning into his own hands, and Harry quickly learnt that the results he yielded was always faster and better when he was under Tom's direct tutelage rather than following the book's instructions. Every minute Harry had to spare was crammed with some form of training or other, and almost every night it was all he could do wash-up quickly before collapsing straight onto the sofa until dawn.

As for his lock-picking practice, Tom would often bring back some lock or other he'd replicated from the original, and had Harry to crack them. At first the locks were quite similar to the ones Harry was used to breaking, but after that Tom had gotten some bigger, bulkier and much older locks in which Harry had never tried his hand at. He kept working at them though, and eventually he managed to muster them all, and he made notes in his ledger book to remind himself of a few key different sequences.

All of that would have been fine. Indeed there were times when Harry felt almost – contented. Every waking day there were new things to learn and explore, and his array of activities kept him distracted most of the time. But ever since that day when Harry had asked about the note Tom had left him and had gotten no answer… Tom had been strangely distant.

It was as if a switch had been thrown, and he didn't understand it one bit. He'd initially thought that Tom's strange mood would vanish overnight, just like the pulsing blue circle he'd accidentally conjured around the house did over the next day. But a week passed, and Tom had yet to let up to anything. The other never acted any different, but Harry could sense there was something off between them. There was hardly any light-heartedness between them anymore; just clipped instructions and short answers to Harry's questions.

It was as if the pebble he'd casually thrown into the waters kept on sinking without reaching the bottom, and he was powerless to restore the stillness of the rippling surface.

To top it off, Harry's scar had begun to prickle in higher intensity – and with it he could gradually feel Tom's emotions in the back of his mind growing stronger and stronger. He could tell that Tom could sense it too. It was hard to pinpoint how exactly Harry knew, he just simply did. But just like Tom was a master of a whole other array of subjects, the other was a master at acting, and never let anything slip.

It irked Harry that he could tell there so many things _wrong_ between them yet he couldn't voice them out because he wouldn't even know where to start. Everything appeared perfectly normal, and on the outside Tom behaved no different. Anything Harry picked out on would simply be thrown back at him with an eloquent denial. The odd times when Tom would return to his normal self usually happened when Tom was teaching – because it was one of the things Harry could tell Tom actually enjoyed. Like when the time Harry's magic had cut through the lock causing it to fall painfully on his toe instead of unlocking it, Tom had given a snide remark, which startled a snort from Harry, but even those moments quickly died out. Much like Tom's emotions they shuttered out quickly, and Harry would be left there feeling completely out of depth.

It was a waste because for a time there he'd actually fantasized that he could actually make _this,_ whatever his strange relationship with Tom meant, work. He'd ditched the shelter at the first opportunity and went for Tom instead, after all. Not for the last time he wondered what he'd said to make the other close off so abruptly, and if it mattered, if they could ever go back to when it had all begun. It wasn't unbearable… and while most things remained largely the same, Harry could still sense the invisible barrier.

But if Tom wasn't going to acknowledge it, there was nothing he could do either.

Harry rubbed his eyes and moved to pick up the lock on the table. It was slightly heavier than the last, much larger, and with the keyhole's width almost equivalent to that of a finger. It looked pretty old, and that was saying something – because the houses around Wool's were all pretty old, and Harry had his fair share of successful break-ins into plenty of ancient-looking safes belonging to some old man or other. He scrutinized it for a moment, calculating his first move, but before he could pick up his tools Tom wordlessly Summoned the lock from his slack grip. It returned to the elder wizard's palm in the next second.

Harry raised weary eyes to meet the other's. "Defense practice?" he said instead, fighting a yawn.

Tom eyed him for a while, to a point it was almost critical. Harry felt the familiar buzz of emotions in the back of his mind, but he was too tired to try to distinguish the blur of colours. He didn't even bother to look up. He knew what would lie behind watchful dark green eyes anyway; an impenetrable shutter which had only thickened over the last few days.

There was a pregnant pause, before Tom finally relented. Harry heard a silent exhale of breath before the other spoke again, his voice despite all appearances sounding for the first time a little less clipped and detached.

"You need a breath of fresh air," Tom murmured.

Slowly Harry blinked the grit from his eyes and looked up. A part of the change in Tom's tone registered, but Harry was too tired to hold onto it at the moment. "Me?" he said instead, not contradicting but ever so slightly disbelieving.

It came back again – that too-fast flicker of emotions in the back of his mind, as fleeting as a melting shadow in the winter twilight. Tom glanced at him, and the silence rang with all the words they'd left unsaid. Harry picked up the lock he'd been working on and snapped it close again. He had a vague idea forming at the back of his mind, but he'd never said it aloud until then.

"If this is what it's all about, you needn't concern yourself with me you know," Harry said quietly. He looked up, meeting the other's dark eyes evenly with his own.

"I know you took me in with a purpose," Harry continued when Tom made no move to speak. "You promised to teach me magic in return for my skills, and I gave you my word. You already taught me a lot, and more than that you gave me a place to stay." He looked up and offered a slight smile, trying to ignore the prickling headache which was blossoming to life again. "I've worked under _them_ for some years, I know how the business runs. I won't be a burden. I'll leave when the time comes."

Even if it scared him to admit it, he had to accept it at some point: that this arrangement of things wasn't going to work out in the long run. He didn't know where in the world he belonged, but Tom did. He could tell simply by the way the other was always thinking, always planning and calculating his next move. Tom was planning to return to the Wizarding World even if the world stood against him, he had a goal in mind which despite everything Harry would never be privy to. And then, where would Harry stand in that picture?

Tom had been the one who'd taken him in, but Harry knew that it had all solely been for another purpose, and nothing else. Once Harry got him whatever he wanted, there wouldn't be any further need for Harry to be around. And he wasn't going to linger around until he was recognized as a burden.

Tom's face was unreadable, but something in his eyes flickered, as if taken by surprise. If Harry's speculations were right, he didn't deny nor confirm it. "Where then will you go?" he asked quietly.

Harry shrugged. He hadn't given it much thought – he just assumed he would somehow get by. He always did. "I could turn back up at the shelter, see if they want me," he said, half-jokingly. "Or maybe someone else will require my skills. You never know."

There was no slight smile, no flicker of amusement. Tom's voice was hard. "And you'd let everything just go to waste?"

Harry faltered at the weight behind the question. "Perhaps I'll find a place in the wizarding world, somehow," he amended, slightly torn between light-heartedness and the latter. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes studying Tom's. "Who knows, I might even meet you there."

Tom looked amused. Harry could tell there was no mirth in it. "You wouldn't recognize me then."

"I think I would," Harry countered back without missing a beat.

To that, Tom gave no reply. Harry felt a flicker of bitterness, and after that nothing followed. He got the feeling that he was only focused on the lighter part of the conversation, while Tom's words held an underlying meaning which he wouldn't have been able to grasp even if he wasn't too exhausted to try at the moment. But something shifted subtly, and the ripples of the waters evened out to smooth over the expanse of the surface.

"What I said still stands though," Tom said presently, as if sensing his thoughts. He stood up, and Harry's jacket abruptly flew out of its place draped over the hanger to dump itself over Harry's head, nearly knocking the boy over. "Besides, you will need to study the layout of the area, just in case you need a quick getaway."

Harry quickly understood what Tom was getting at. Despite the weight of his mission in the days to come, and that he'd noticed that Tom had never answered his question, he couldn't help but feel a little excited. He allowed the topic to drop and peered out from beneath the weight of his winter jacket to study the other, wide-eyed.

"Are we actually going out into the wizarding world?"

"Even better yet, undercover."

…

* * *

...

-X-

"Fancy a Firewhiskey, Harry?"

"A what?"

"It's alcohol."

Harry gave him a look. "You're offering a minor alcohol?"

Tom shrugged. Harry got the feeling that Tom couldn't care less, and he wasn't the least surprised.

They were sitting at a table in a quiet pub somewhere in the heart of Diagon Alley. Tom had told him the best drinks were served in the Leaky Cauldron, but they were forfeiting that for the sake of security. It was a favorite among the locals, and people from the Ministry frequented there. And besides, as Tom put it, the deafening noise inside wasn't worth their beer.

"It's a wizarding culture, Harry," Tom continued, a spark of amusement returning to his eyes. "When somebody drinks, it's customary for their companions to follow suit. It gives good company."

"I highly doubt the same applies to minors," Harry began, but Tom waved it off with a dismissive gesture.

"Do you still consider yourself as a child?"

Harry blinked, caught off-guard by the question. "I – _what?"_

"Do you still think of yourself as a child," Tom repeated. The intensity of his gaze, while hooded by the dim winter light wandering through grimy windows, returned with full force, and Harry once more found himself the object of Tom's scrutiny. He found that he was beginning to get used to it.

"Um, I never really gave that much thought," Harry replied, confused where this was all heading to.

Tom said nothing. He lifted his drink and took a sip of the curious amber liquid, but his eyes never left Harry. Harry felt a faint brush of curiousity at the back of his mind and realized the other was still waiting for an answer.

"It's hard to think of myself as an adult when I can hardly reach past your elbow," Harry retorted dryly.

Tom smiled. "I suppose that's true," he conceded. His eyes flickered back to study the half-empty glass. Across the table Harry's mug of hot chocolate remained largely untouched, though his fingers were wrapped around it for warmth. A lapse of silence fell, punctuated by the slight clinking of glass as the bartender proceeded to wipe the dirty glasses with a none-too-clean cloth at the back of the counter.

Harry frowned as he mulled over Tom's question. "You don't see me as a child though," he pointed out, feeling slightly surprised himself when he made the observation.

Tom looked up. "I've seen you as many things. Opportunities, mostly," the other confessed. "But never a child."

"Why not?" Harry ventured.

Tom's eyes flickered to meet his for a brief moment, his head cocked slightly to one side. "Perhaps you should ask yourself that question," he said lightly. "You were never one to begin with. Not since we met, at any rate."

Despite himself Harry felt surprised. He'd never really thought of himself as mature, perhaps a little independent in some ways. But to be called an adult when he was yet to fully turn ten seemed a bit of a stretch.

He returned his attention to the thick, frothing hot chocolate in his mug and stirred it idly with his spoon. It was one of the best he'd ever tasted, but at the same time it was very heavy as it was sweet. He didn't think he could stomach a whole mug of it.

It had been a long time since he'd simply talked to Tom just like that, no academic topics or plans involved. But while it was nice while it lasted, the question haunting his mind ever since he'd come under Tom's roof burned in the forefront of his mind again, and even if he knew the other had intentionally evaded the topic when he'd first brought it up, he decided that it was time he had his answer, even if he was apprehensive to hear it. And what better time to approach it than now, when Tom was seated directly across him and couldn't pretend not to hear him.

It didn't really make any sense to him, though. As far as he was concerned, he was the one that was supposed to be avoiding the topic, not Tom.

"Tom," he said aloud, before he could change his mind. There was a hint of finality in his voice when he did, causing the other to glance over at him, like he had known it would. He was tired of beating around the bush. "When am I leaving?"

Tom's grip on the glass tightened just a little, and if not for the fact of the mind link between them, Harry wouldn't have noticed. But perhaps it was due to the fact that they'd been living together for almost a month, Harry had unconsciously picked up more than one of Tom's traits; and much like the other Harry said nothing to indicate that he'd noticed.

"It depends," Tom replied at length, not clipped, not detached – but strangely, emotionlessly. Like he was merely stating a fact. "I could draw out our agreement and lengthen the inevitable while we both still have time to spare, but we both know that you'll have to, eventually." Tom paused, his eyes studying Harry carefully, and as if reading his mind, he continued. "And not because you're a burden to me, or something equally ridiculous – I am not a patient person, neither am I selfless; I'm sure you know that by now."

Harry swallowed. Tom's eyes were darker now, and with the slight change Harry's scar prickled to life once more.

"It's simply because your world cannot contain me, and neither does mine," Tom continued flatly, his tone neither light nor the latter; not pausing to explain nor gauge a reaction. "Granted, we've crossed paths, but we will not share a part of it come the future. You asked me if we would meet if we were both in the wizarding world; I can tell you now that we will not. What we have now in common is a mutualistic goal which keep us together, nothing more, but nothing less than that either."

Harry stared back at him, saying nothing. His heart gave a dull thud, and he was surprised by the faint ache when he thought of leaving Tom behind, the run-down house and the Wyr Tree in a part of his life he would never return to. He'd expected as much, but it still caught him unaware.

"If I'm not a burden, then why ever not?" Harry managed to say, forcing himself to maintain his gaze steadily. "You can't be sure about that."

"I assure you I can Harry," Tom replied quietly. There was not a shred of lie in his words, and Harry knew instantly that Tom believed them. "Let's put it this way: I know more about you than you do about me."

For a moment Harry simply stared back at the other, as if he could somehow gain an understanding, but Tom had no more answers to offer. Even if Harry had long been suspecting that there was a strange connection between their minds, their mind-link did little to improve his comprehension of Tom's view of things. There was only the faint stir of emotions in a forgotten recess of his mind, too ephemeral to be identified or consequential.

It could be Harry's imagination, but Tom's eyes softened slightly.

"It's just as well that we both have time left to figure it out," he said softly. He brushed his robes and stood up to leave. The Firewhiskey bottle was still half-full. "Come now, Harry. In the meantime, we have work to do."

They paid at the counter and left together without another word. Harry's mind still buzzing with their conversation, and Tom made no move to disrupt his line of thought.

It wasn't until after they were both walking out in the heavy snow, Harry trailing behind Tom as he dimly registered the unfamiliar sights of a wizarding village, that he abruptly realized something.

All the while he'd thought that he was a burden weighing down Tom, and that his sole purpose was to steal some magical object or something for the other before his purpose was expired. He'd thought he'd been doing the right thing by taking the initiative to leave when he was clearly unneeded.

But now he realized that while Tom had started off with a single purpose in mind for him, for some reason, the other was reluctant to let him go after.

…

 **A/N: Phew, this was a difficult chapter to write. I'll admit I completely scrapped the last and typed this despite of my impending exams. What can I do? Stress gives rise to a ton of inspiration. I'm not sure about the flow of this chapter, limited time to edit and all that: but I enjoyed writing it quite a lot, actually.**

 **I apologize for the lateness of this chapter; and to be frank I don't know if I'll manage another chapter within a week once more. If I don't, I do hope for your understanding – and I'll try to write as frequent as I can after 19** **th** **, which is when my freedom beckons. ;)**

 **Do tell me what you think, pretty please? :p**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A million and one thanks to** _Snooowy, Delicious darkness, Phoenixx Rising, alc219, Ciara, Scarlett Woman, Tortus, Blue Luver5000, Azniro-Yes Me, SernaJ, The Other World, Abel Sephaos, jayfeather63, Cauchy and all guests._ **You guys are amazing :3 This chapter is written for you, hope you enjoy it!**

 _In response to a few questions/concerns:_

 _About never finishing this story because Harry is so young: well - just because the canon series started when Harry was 11 until he was 17 doesn't mean I'm going to do the same, neither does it mean I'll be taking my readers through every year as well. While it's still too early to say, I do fully intend to finish this story. :)_

 _Oh and about Snape's involvement in the story... so far my plans for him indicates that he certainly won't be a minor character, though how major will depend on my inspiration and your feedback._

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing at all.

* * *

 **Chapter 14:**

A few days later found an aged wizard with wispy white hair occupying the very same spot Tom and Harry had vacated the night before: in the quiet pub lying on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. His companion was a dark-haired wizard with a rather hooked nose, and with an unpleasant scowl to match. It was quite understandably, also the latter who shot a meaningful glare at the bartender, who had recognized his customers instantly and was trying to listen in to their conversation.

" _Muffliato,"_ Snape muttered under his breath, his wand discreetly pointed in the direction of the counter, before turning his attention back to the elder wizard who sat watching him. "Honestly Dumbledore, could you think of no better place to hold an important conversation in _private_?"

Dumbledore remained wholly unperturbed. "Merry New Year's Eve to you too, Severus," he responded calmly. When Snape continued to look infuriated, the Headmaster relented and put down his drink. "In response to your question: there's only one other man in this building besides us both, which you've just taken care of. I do think our conversation will remain between our ears only. And besides, they do serve a decent drink."

He paused, gauging Snape's reaction, who still didn't look convinced.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to trust the cat," Dumbledore added, and he tilted his head in the direction of an orange tabby cat sitting on a table not far from theirs, his blue eyes twinkling. It mewled at him meticulously.

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Has he reported back yet?" he asked instead, jumping straight to the point.

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes faded quickly. "Things with the Ministry have been rocky as of late, Severus," he said, sounding weary. "Fudge refuses to acknowledge my warnings that the Dark Lord is rising back to power. He thinks the Death-Eaters cast the Dark Mark themselves at the attack on that Muggle village. He won't even take my request for a cross-country Portkey seriously."

"So Mundungus hasn't even _gone?_ " Snape interrupted disbelievingly.

"To be fair he only agreed to undertake the mission last week, but the Ministry denied his previous applications. Mundungus isn't exactly eager for the job either."

Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose furiously. "Dumbledore, you do realize if my warnings prove true, it would be too late by now to try to locate Potter."

"I do appreciate your concerns Severus, but I doubt the Dark Lord would know where to look for him at all. And besides, Mundungus has been checking up on the boy once in a while," Dumbledore began in a placating tone. "Last I heard Harry and the Dursleys appear to have settled into Germany pretty well. It's been many years after all."

Snape snorted. "And you trust that lying sneak thief?"

"I have no reason not to," Dumbledore answered. He gazed across at Snape steadily. "Though it does intrigue me, Severus, what triggered your sudden compulsion to check up on the boy? You certainly hadn't given us the impression you cared for the past decade."

Snape snapped his mouth shut. To say that he'd put forwards that suggestion on the basis of him meeting a strange green-eyed boy with magic during the raid on that Muggle village would be unacceptable. Rationally coincidence would be all it was, and yet… the word 'instinct' hovered at the tip of his tongue. But at the sight of Dumbledore looking back at him with that penetrating gaze of his, Snape immediately scrapped the notion.

"It also does intrigue me how you came to allow the so-called 'saviour' of Britain's wizarding world to be raised in a country not his own," he sneered, deflecting the question effortlessly.

"We've had this discussion before – Harry needs the protection of the blood wards more than anything else," Dumbledore returned. It was evident he'd picked up on Snape's evasion of the question, but he let it drop for the time being. "We'll send him an offer letter come his eleventh birthday. If he agrees to attend Hogwarts, he can always return to the Dursleys' over the holidays; I'm sure the Ministry can arrange an international Portkey if we put forth our applications early."

Snape privately thought it'd be easier to apply for the Portkey under the vacation department, rather than for 'security/emergency' reasons. While the Order had been combining its resistance efforts with the Ministry ever since almost a decade ago, lately it seemed as though Fudge was tightening any leash he could over the Order just so he could regain some form of leadership. More than that, the Ministry always kicked up a huge fuss whenever an issue which required withdrawing from their funds cropped up. Snape wouldn't be surprised if Mundungus only managed to get his permit by next year.

Outwardly though, Snape only lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

"Special treatment for the golden boy… why am I not surprised?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You know as well as I do that the boy is the only reason why the wizarding world still stands a fighting chance," the elder wizard said wearily. "Before the prophecy came along and was publicized so much, hardly anyone thought it was worth it to take a stand against the Dark Lord. He was already too powerful… and while many looked to me, to put it mildly - most remained reluctant to follow my leadership ever since my truce with Grindelwald." Dumbledore looked at him solemnly. "What the wizarding world needs, and relies on, Severus, is hope. Harry's return to Britain will boost the public morale. Even if he is merely a boy, the public will put their faith in him. And with that belief, our resistance can remain strong."

Snape's lip curled at the mention of the dreaded prophecy.

It couldn't have come at a worse time: with Rita Skeeter lurking outside the doors in hope of catching Dumbledore and pressing him for an interview about the second rising Dark Lord, the reporter had overheard every word between the school Headmaster and Trelawney. It was the juiciest news Skeeter had heard in a while – and when Dumbledore had reacted so strongly to it, Skeeter immediately knew that this piece of news was a gem.

Within the next day the prophecy was printed out in full and widely publicized: and as the wizarding world often swallowed up Skeeter's stories as the truth, for better or for worse: very soon a seed of hope was planted within the wizarding world. Shortly after Dumbledore had gathered enough forces to form the Order of Phoenix. But it also meant that the Chosen One was now painted as a threat against Voldemort, not only because of the prophecy: but because the whole wizarding world believed in him.

Skeeter had been the first one who'd 'suggested' the identities of the Chosen One: Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter. But when rumours of Longbottom's child being born a Squib started to spread, Skeeter quickly ditched the notion and focused solely on the Potter's heir. Snape had no idea how she managed it, but soon the whole wizarding world was starting to believe in her speculations. Dumbledore said it was perhaps due to the fact that they were desperate to find something to believe in and hold onto. But because of her actions the Potters were quickly put in danger, and when Snape suspected of the Dark Lord's plans – he'd run straight to the Order and begged Dumbledore to keep Lily safe.

Of course, all of it had been for naught. Lily ultimately died protecting her son, and the Chosen One was forced under the roof of Lily's sister.

The Dursleys moved abroad not long after, wanting to leave Dumbledore and the Order as far behind in their lives as possible. Mundungus was sent on their trail, and quickly discovered that the family had left for Germany. They'd been living there ever since.

Snape however was far from convinced. Mundungus rarely ever took his job seriously, and he wouldn't be surprised if the man had never even been to Germany in the first place. His reports were flimsy and uninformative to say the least, though Dumbledore seemed to be placated. So far there seemed to be no cause for alarm, but ever since that day at the raid, Snape had been feeling very uneasy.

If no one was going to take things seriously, he was going to take things into his own hands. He would not fail Lily's last request of him for anything.

"If it means putting my trust in a con-man who lies for a living, forgive me if I do not share that belief," Snape retorted waspishly. He stood up and drained his drink, before meeting Dumbledore's gaze head-on for one last parting message. "I'm freeing myself of all duties for a week. Therefore I will also remain uncontactable until I have returned."

Dumbledore looked surprised, but he didn't try to stop him. " _You_ are undertaking the mission yourself?"

Snape lifted an eyebrow at the implication.

"Oh no I'm not. As far as the Ministry is concerned, I'm taking a cross-country vacation to Europe."

After all, the Ministry rarely refused anyone when money was involved.

…

A moment later, Snape had stepped out into the heart of the frigid winter. Despite his cloak and robes, the wind bit into his skin deeply. He raised his wand and casted a non-verbal Warming Charm over himself, but while he was sure he'd managed it – no glow lit up his wand-tip, and the cold remained as unbearable as ever. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

A slight tingle ran up his spine. He frowned to himself and cast the Warming Charm again, verbally. This time, a pulsing yellow light lit up his wand-tip, and a rush of warmth spread through his body from his wand.

He stopped. Any other ordinary wizard might have missed it, but Snape had been working as a spy for almost a decade. He was certain that he'd heard a rustle somewhere behind him. It was almost as soft as the frantic scurrying of an animal.

"Who's there?" Snape called sharply, his wandlight glowing brighter as he tried to peer into the gloom.

No one replied.

His eyes fell to study the snow-covered ground. It looked choppy, as if someone had dragged a rake through it and given up halfway – but there was no evidence of footprints.

" _Homenum revelio_ " Snape muttered. He wasn't taking any chances.

But try as he might, the spell only revealed two other beings in his vicinity – and both led back to the pub. Dumbledore and the bartender. None of them led him through the small space between the next shop and the pub to the backdoor, where Snape could catch a glimpse of a high-fence which ran down the length of the street, separating the higher ground and the latter. A high, steep slope of snow ran upwards on the other side of the fence; there was no way anyone could manage to climb it without leaving a mark in that short span of time.

He spared the lump of snow which balanced precariously on the other side one last glance before stalking away abruptly, his black cloak billowing behind him. He had a mission to complete.

…

* * *

-X-

Crouching in the long evening shadows and barely breathing, Harry finally allowed himself to heave a sigh of relief.

It had been pure bad luck that he'd chosen to cast the Forsildan rune the moment the paranoid dark-haired wizard had chosen to leave the pub. He'd barely managed to tighten the circle back towards himself just in time. Thankfully the man had only decided to probe about using magic, which meant the Forsildan rune would easily hide Harry's presence. It probably wouldn't have boded well if the wizard had chosen to follow him. Even after a fortnight's worth of practice, Harry's Disillusionment Charm was still shaky at best.

He approached the tall fence, and with some effort managed to get a good grip on the ledge by burrowing his fingers into the hardened snow. A few clumps of snow were dislodged by the movement and fell directly on top of his face, including his glasses. Time to move fast, or he would soon be buried a foot under.

With a terrifying leap, he pushed off the fence and propelled himself into the air. He flipped once before landing on the other side of the fence, before the snow slide caused him to slip backwards until he was pressed against the fence. Gritting his teeth against the cold, Harry wrenched up one of his legs out of the sinking pool of slush and used his momentum to scramble quickly and lightly up and over the snowdrift. When he reached the top, he looked back and waved the wand he'd kept in his boot, and a wave of white dust rose to cover his prints.

Satisfied, Harry tucked the wand back into its hiding place and considered his surroundings.

For the moment all he could see was a patch of forest, but he could make out a slight clearing where a thin row of houses were standing by a narrow street. Tom had showed him the way before, just in case there were still people milling around the main gates. Of course, given that it was apparently, currently New Years' Eve and that the temperature was recorded to be at its worst for the past decade, that in itself was unlikely, but Harry wasn't about to take any chances.

After all, this wasn't just a simple mission for a gang of street bullies needing money.

Very soon he reached the edge of the forest, and after climbing over another gate, he soon reached his destination.

A large building loomed up ahead of him, its massive structure majestic even in the dimming light. It was easily one of the biggest buildings Harry had ever seen – rising up to five-stories high, with fancy pillars and doors and gates wrought of steel and bronze. The main entrance was on the opposite end of the building, in which Harry had yet to actually see before. Apparently there was a path leading from the heart of Diagon Alley right up to the steps of the museum, which bordered on the outskirts.

He looked around him, and noting that he was the only one in sight, he silently cast the Forsildan rune again. The silver-blue circle expanded once more, pulsing regularly like a bizarre shield. Harry then took hold of the tall spear-like structures which formed the gates and began to climb.

…

A moment later found Harry walking down the aisle of the hallways quietly.

After he'd infiltrated the grounds, the rest was relatively easy. The Forsildan nullified any wards set in place – he only needed to be careful to allow it to expand and cover enough vicinity so that his presence remained hidden. With the doors stripped bare of any magical protection, Harry then picked through the locks using the skills he'd learnt back from his days at the orphanage, and then he was in.

The interior was dark as it was cold, with the only source of light being the strange blue circle which pulsed around him. For a while he confined it to him within a one-metre radius, but when he reached another set of double doors, he let it expand and fill the hallway. The invisible wards and charms became instantly neutralized upon contact with the blue arc. Confidently he pushed through them, and let himself in.

The sight of numerous artefacts on glittering display shelves greeted him. On normal days, a golden scroll would unfurl from thin air to introduce the magical relics and their splendid and more often than not, bloody history when the visitors approached. But of course, the museum was currently closed for the holiday, and besides it was way past its normal operating hours. Harry didn't allow himself to pause as he continued to make his way towards the heart of the museum, but he felt an ironic stir of regret as he did.

 _Some day,_ he thought. _I'll come back here as a visitor in broad daylight._

Focusing back on the task at hand, Harry directed his eyes on the silver plaque sealed into each glass case. Each silver plaque had a number embossed into it, numbering every artefact displayed in the museum. Even so the numbers only indicated the hall they would be displayed in, and were not arranged in any specific numerical order. Harry spent a few minutes going through the strange yet fascinating array of magical artefacts, though he forced himself to keep his eyes peeled for their numbers instead of anything else. And soon enough, Harry found the display case numbered seventy-seven.

Immediately he could recognize why Tom would want it. Tom liked collecting trophies he knew, and the wizard had introduced Harry to countless priceless artefacts found all over Britain. After their visit to the pub as well as their landmark study, they'd visited plenty of little shabby shops squeezed at the end of Knockturn alley: and though many of the things he found there disgusted him, some were intriguing to say the least. Even more than that, it seemed that talking about magical objects and their histories was one of the few things which Harry recognized could make Tom seem almost… pleased. A shade of normalcy in the other's persona which oddly seemed refreshing and _special_ because the more he got to know Tom to more he knew the other was anything but ordinary. And during those times it was easier to forget the shade of darkness he knew came with the other, but for the moment still chose to ignore.

Currently in the absolute darkness of the museum, there was no illumination of light save the pulsing blue circle which was only visible to Harry's eyes. Trying his best to maintain his concentration, he fueled more magic into the rune and the circle flared up into a brilliant blue. Then he neared the glass case numbered 77 and pressed a gloved hand against it.

There, on a high threshold sealed off in a beautiful case of glass, lay a long, curious wand. There were intricate carvings which ran down the length of the wood, right from the hilt to the middle tapering off to the tip. It sat there, silent and still: but Harry could sense a strange sort of life in it which seemed to tug at an age-old memory far beyond his capabilities to recall.

He'd never really thought much of wands, with what he was currently using a fragile and ill-fitting one – but seeing it brought a different light of understanding to his eyes. He could practically feel its magic singing out to him, foreign yet hauntingly familiar in a way. He spent a few moments admiring it before he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the artefact and cast his eyes down to study the edge of the glass case, measuring his breakthrough: but at that moment something else caught his eye.

There was a single monochromatic picture framed at the bottom of the glass, reflected only in hues of blue by the illumination of the hovering circle around him. He could barely see properly – he repeated, night vision was _not_ his strong point – but it was clearly the picture of a family. Two parents, cradling a child still wrapped in a bundle. Nothing else. No words, no explanation – just three figures standing frozen in time behind the lens of a camera.

A strange tingle ran up his spine. His breath soon fogged up the glass and made the picture blurry, but he continued to study it.

His gaze wandered curiously around the glass dome holding the wand, but there was nothing else to explain it or its history. He wondered why Tom had chosen to send him after this wand specifically: after all, he knew Tom already had one. But he assumed that it was probably because it was better and more powerful or something. Why else would it be so heavily warded in a magical museum anyway?

A slight tug at his temples reminded him of his mission, and the magic which was draining out of him the longer he used the rune. He shook away his curiousity, lowered his hand and wiped away the fog which had misted over the glass, and turned to fumble in his inner robe pockets. It was time to set to work – what he'd been doing for almost his entire life.

He produced a coil of string, twirling it around his fingers as he estimated its length. He shrugged off his backpack, and checked that the alcohol and lighter were still in place, as was the heavy weight of the slush he'd collected. It would weaken if not break the glass – and hidden in his other boot was a diamond-edged knife Tom had bought for him.

It was funny to think that it had been Jack who'd taught him most of the basic tricks he knew many years ago. Not Tom. And now his skills were coming in useful in the Wizarding world as well.

The whole time Harry was working, the photo lying on the mantelpiece stared at him silently, as if imploring him to turn back and leave the wand alone.

…

 **A/N: Double cookies to those who can guess what all of this means. There are plenty of clues scattered around by now, but still. Explanations will come anyway, in the form of future chapters. Massive drama and twists awaits!**

 **Anyhow, a better question would be: What am I doing here?!**

 **I keep working on this story literally every day. Even if it's just to further outline my draft. It's super addicting, and this is super bad. My exams are so screwed. *sobs and moans in corner***

 **You can either thank me for the chapter or scold me for my own good. Either is welcome. I need some aggressive motivation. Seriously there is something wrong with me.**

 **Please review, or rate, and comfort this oh-so-forlorn soul.**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**


	15. Chapter 15

**Million thanks to these amazing people:** _AlternateInverse, Blue Luver5000, ClarisseSelwyn, Phoenixx Rising, Scarlett Woman, charapa, Azniro-Yes Me, JJ Inugami, Tortus, Owlfur, Cauchy, jayfeather63, The Other World, SernaJ and guests._ **T** **hank youuu so much! Apologies for my late replies to your wonderful reviews. But anyway, chapter 15 is written for you guys :P**

 **And CHEERS TO MY FREEDOM! XD**

 **To be honest I've suffered minor writer's block after the exams, coupled with a rather busy schedule packing and moving and doing housework. But after rewriting this for the third time, I've decided to post it all the same. Otherwise I wouldn't be moving forwards. Hope it's up to par... *cross fingers***

DISCLAIMER: I own nothin' notheeeeennn. Ish.

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

Harry awoke the next day to a dull throbbing headache.

The house was silent, with the soft patter of snowflakes well muffled by the thick blanket of snow carpeting the ground; the wind virtually non-existent save the few occasions it rustled the leaves of the Wyr Tree. For a moment Harry simply lay there in the semi-light, willing the ache to go away as he tried to summon the energy to leave his cocoon of blankets on the sofa, but to no avail.

While his headaches had been growing rather frequent, it was never anything more than a mild nuisance he couldn't ignore. But over the last night, for some incomprehensible reason, the pain in his scar had built up to a level of vicious agony he'd only experienced once before on the night of the raid.

Eventually the pain got too great for him to cling to his vestiges of sleep, and Harry forced himself to roll out of his makeshift bed. Dimly he noted that Tom wasn't around, which meant he couldn't bring it up with the other even if he'd wanted to. He'd never really brought up the issue of the other, being unaccustomed to sharing his problems – but the pain eating at him was beginning to make him regret that decision.

Gritting his teeth Harry forced himself to wash up quickly, savouring the stinging coldness of the water splashing against his scar, but afterwards there was little he could do about it. When he re-emerged into the dining room, only did he notice there was some breakfast left on the table for him, but he knew couldn't stomach anything at the moment.

He wondered if he was falling sick, but then a thought struck him. He remembered the last time his scar had acted up like that had been when the wizards had been 'teaching him a lesson'… and he recalled it only faded after they'd all teleported away, frightened by the hanging mark in the sky. As far as Harry knew, no one was currently holding him under any sort of curse – but even if so the Forsildan rune would be able to remove it, right?

Desperate for relief, Harry didn't give it much thought before casting the spell. _"Forsildan,"_ he muttered, straining to call forth of his last tendrils of magic. The pulsing blue circle expanded outwards to hover around him, but he managed to contain it within in a metre's radius around him before it could extend to the fire crackling in the grate.

But still the pain persisted; it felt like something inside his head was trying to break free, and was wrecking at his mind with a pointed sledgehammer. The protective blue circle hovered around him, casting strange illuminations around his surroundings. It was only when he caught sight of his own distorted reflection on the kettle when Harry abruptly realized that he had been pacing the house restlessly in a vain attempt to distract his mind from the pain. He'd rarely ever ventured around to the back of the house, save using the bathroom: but now he was standing at the narrow door looking into the dark, almost never lit kitchen.

He veered out of the doorway and headed instead towards the almost equally unused dining hall, then back through the cramped corridor to the living room where he always lounged. The pain didn't abate. Frustrated Harry channeled more power into the rune, hoping that it would somehow break him free of whatever pain spell he was under – when abruptly, out of the dark wooden-panel floor in far end corner of the living room, a small square incision appeared.

Mind held by a haze of pain and vague curiousity, Harry walked over and bent down to inspect the ground. It was quite clearly a trapdoor of sorts. Harry gathered it must have been hidden under an Invisibility spell – or perhaps he'd simply never noticed it was there; but when Harry retracted the circle tighter still around himself, the trapdoor quickly disappeared from sight. Meaning Tom had purposely Charmed it to be closed from anyone else.

An uneasiness settled over him, coupled with curiousity, but soon the latter overpowered the former by a large margin. If Tom really hadn't wanted Harry to discover it, surely he would have gone to greater lengths to have the trapdoor hidden? Tom wasn't a fool, he knew perfectly well that Harry would be liable to discover it after teaching Harry the Forsildan rune. Providing, of course, that Tom had been the one to cast the Charm – though Harry couldn't think of any other possibility.

Slowly, with one hand still clamped over his burning scar, Harry eased open the trapdoor, and it swung open easily at his tug. He was immediately greeted by the sight of a short flight of stairs spiraling downwards into what seemed like total darkness. He tugged at his magic again, and the pulsing blue circle flared brighter in response to his will. And with that Harry began his descent.

He soon found himself standing in a basement constructed of warm cedar. The whole place seemed oddly still and quiet, as if it were sealed off from the outside world. Harry took a few steps deeper into the underground room, his footsteps muffled against wood. For all its secrecy the room was strangely empty, save a three-legged stool and tripod stand in the middle. There were neither drawing blocks nor any brushes lying around to indicate they had been put to their purpose.

Pain mostly forgotten, Harry allowed the rune to expand and fill the entire basement. The effort cost him more than he'd expected, and for a brief moment his world tilted and blurred before sharpening back to focus, but when it did a sharp breath of cold air jarred in Harry's throat.

Staring back at him on the previously empty walls, hung a row of paintings.

The lines depicting each of pictures were vivid. They managed to blend in both dark and light semitones of an array of colours which would have seemed to clash on any other piece, but within the strokes of that picture they didn't. Even to Harry's inexperienced eye he could tell that the art itself was sophisticated. But for all their intricacy and haunting beauty - the pictures were eerily grotesque.

They were lined on the wall starting from the end of the basement. Many were similar, yet they weren't. Different shades and colours painted different tones to each drawing, and each had their own vibe. The first contained a boy's head which sprouted two faces of equal size. One was looking towards a distant light, innocent and smiling. The other face was cast towards strokes of darkest blue and purple. It was on first sight expressionless, yet there were small twists added by a few flourished strokes of the brush which gave the impression that the second face was also smiling, but it was eerily vacant.

Harry swallowed as he walked past down the lines of pictures. They were all of similar content, but as they ran down the row they began to evolve: all the bright colours in the pictures dimming until they were murky grey: and the face looking towards the light grew smaller until it was gruesomely disproportionate. But the second face sprouting on the other side of the head which looked towards the contrasting darkness grew larger to fill the canvas, and with that so did the smile on its lips, until it was no longer just a faded impression.

Then, quite abruptly, the pictures stopped.

The last one hanging on the line of them wasn't a human's face: it was a serpent with two heads sprouting out of its body. The bigger head reared upwards, dominating most of the picture: it was quite clear by its shape that it was a cobra. The second slightly smaller one was a different snake, and it faced a dust of grey, in the direction of where the first face of the human boy would look towards the light. When he'd reached the last one, Harry looked back towards the first picture, and moving closer, he was startled to notice even under the hues of blue light – that the vacant smiling face of the boy was crying.

His heart thudded faintly in his chest. Even his breathing seemed loud to his ears in the quietness of the basement. The pictures weren't as unnerving as the stories they were trying to tell – but even more than that, Harry had a strong feeling that Tom was the main character behind them.

But what was the story Tom wanted to tell? What did any of the pictures mean?

He went back and studied them again carefully, as if he'd missed out any little detail which would shed some light on the bizarre pictures. Five pictures of a boy with two faces, one of a two-headed serpent. There was one more space for a last picture to be hung, but there was nothing after the snake monster.

Harry moved back to the first, drawn in by the complex emotions weaved by the subtle strokes of paint - before suddenly the memory of seeing a similar picture jumped out at him.

The drawing in his memory had clearly been much less detailed than the one currently staring at him across the wall. It spoke of less expertise on the artist's part, but the essence of the picture was nevertheless captured. One boy, two faces: one smiling at the light, the other staring into the dark. It'd been hung among the hundred others, which had been flimsily pasted all over the place in an attempt to cover up the ugly whitewashed walls in the Nurse's office back at Wool's: pictures drawn by Harry himself, pictures drawn by every child who had once set foot in the orphanage. But all of them had shared the same title: _A Picture of Me._

…

* * *

...

-X-

Dumbledore sat in his office, his head bowed as he studied the three articles laid out before his table. They were all from different publishers, but all three Wizarding newspapers highlighted the same flashing headlines, and despite it being the first day of 1991, they had nothing whatsoever to do with seasonal greetings.

Lord Voldemort's wand had been stolen.

Of course, there were a number of people who would benefit from thieving that particular wand, but the fact that the last wizard who had ever possessed it was the Dark Lord, who was rumoured to have already returned, should have served enough as an effective deterrent. Dumbledore had no doubt in mind that Lord Voldemort had been the one behind the scheme.

And yet… there was something that troubled him more than Voldemort's reacquisition of his wand.

Despite his outward neutrality towards Snape's suspicions, Dumbledore knew just how reliable Snape's instincts often turned out to be – and after hearing Snape's concerns, he'd privately investigated the matter. It occurred to him that the Potions professor had become increasingly anxious - alarmed, even, after the night of the raid when the Dark Mark had been emblazoned in the night sky once more. At first Dumbledore had understandably attributed it to the growing vividness of the Mark on Snape's arm, but after that he wasn't so sure. It seemed as though something had occurred on the night of the attack which troubled Snape, and it revolved particularly about the Chosen One.

Following the next few days, Dumbledore had looked up the name of the Muggle village which had been razed to ashes. It was called The Close. It didn't ring a bell, neither was he familiar with it – but tracking it down soon revealed to Dumbledore that The Close contained none other than the place he'd first met Tom Marvolo Riddle. Wool's orphanage.

That had been the first chilling bit of coincidence. At any rate Dumbledore knew better than to believe in them, and his skepticism only grew when the matter revolved around the Dark Lord. And then, to further confirm his theories - earlier in the day, Snape who had been supposed to collect his Portkey to Germany from the Ministry office had barged in with the articles in hand, looking very grim.

The pieces had fallen together quickly after that, but in a twisted arrangement he didn't want to acknowledge neither bring to light. The strange green-eyed boy Snape had seen during the raid. The Death-Eaters' wands which refused to work against the boy the moment before the Dark Mark flared into the sky and scattered them in fear. And the very night when Snape had stepped out from the pub and he'd heard a scuffle – when for some reason he failed to perform a Warming Charm – the night Voldemort's wand had been stolen.

He'd kept their suspicions from Fudge, of course, but Dumbledore knew it was only a matter of time before the meager trust built between the Order and the Ministry came crumbling down. They had many questions, but none of which they could afford to answer. It was now all a matter of time – to see who reached the Chosen One first.

It was then at that very moment, when one of the silver instruments perched on his shelves began to spin in earnest. A flashing white light was emitted as it did, triggering the warning of a trespasser. Dumbledore rose and went over to inspect it.

He'd placed a Muggle repellent ward around the ruins of Wool's Orphanage during his last visit a few days ago. And now, someone had just crossed its borders.

…

* * *

...

-X-

The Nurse's office was built in an underground room originally constructed to survive air-raids. There was another one located on the ground floor which served as a reception for visitors, but the one Harry was headed to had once been used for serving punishments. Harry had to admit that it was quite effective; there was something about its lack of windows and deadened atmosphere which made one feel claustrophobic. An hour of being locked in the office would almost certainly reduce the toughest bully to contriteness.

Harry had spent more than enough time in that hated place – especially during the times he'd been beaten up by Jack's gang only to be accused of getting into fights. He remembered the unease of a thousand drawings staring down at him from the walls and ceilings, but he remembered one of them in most clear clarity: after all it had been the only picture which contained a boy with two faces.

The thought of entering the burnt out building of Wool's orphanage alone, and returning to the Nurse's office to see if anything was left, daunted Harry more than he cared to admit. Despite the warming Charm he cast upon himself his palms felt cold, and so was his heart. But it was the only clue he had to link him to Tom's past. Tom seemed to know so much about him, yet he had never been privy to the other's personal life: the closest being Tom's non-committal admission that he was hiding from the Wizarding world. Providing Tom had, indeed, once upon a time stayed in Wool's Orphanage, there ought to be records of him – and Harry hoped to find those in the Nurses' entries.

Harry traced back the once familiar path with little difficulty, no longer relying on landmarks but vague directions and counted footsteps. Soon he could make out the burnt out skeletal structure of the building, and not wanting to witness the nightmarish sight any longer, Harry quickly ducked down under the yellow tapes restricting entry and began navigating past a pile of splinters to enter the building itself.

It occurred to Harry that the Nurse's office would have been completely damaged by the cursed fire, but Harry soon found that the Fiendfyre had chosen to snake upwards to the higher floors, and the sealed room lying below three feet of solid brick remained miraculously, largely untouched. With some help of magic, Harry managed to uncover the entry into the basement: and he was soon standing amidst hundreds of amateurish pictures staring down at him from every corner of the wall and ceiling.

Harry grabbed his wand tightly in his hand, feeling an odd sort of comfort even though it didn't fit him very well. " _Lumos,"_ he muttered.

The tip of the wand lit up with dazzling light. Harry directed it closer to the ceiling, where he remembered finding the two-faced picture there. This time round he located it quickly, and balancing precariously on the Nurse's table, Harry managed to prise it off from its position stuck against the wall.

With a leap of his heart, Harry noted that his guess must have been right. The art itself was nowhere near the standards of which Harry had seen in the basement at Middle Street, but it still spoke of detailed depictions well beyond a child's experiences. There was a border around the paper which Harry never noticed before, drawing the frame of a mirror. And within it was the same repetitive story: a boy with two faces, one smiling, the other looking expressionless with a taut line representing its mouth. Harry turned over to the back of the fragile, yellowed paper. And there it was, an neat elegant script writing _Tom Marvolo Riddle; 1936._

Harry dropped the picture onto the table. His heart gave a leap of triumph coupled with deepening unease. _Tom Marvolo Riddle._ Tom.

He went round to the tall shelves lining behind the Nurse's table, tugging open the locked cabinets with a whispered _Alohomora._ The nurses often kept regular entries on each child, and Harry knew exactly where they were kept. Sometimes the Nurse would finish writing down a particularly grim entry and show it to him, saying "See that? Now we don't want a repeat of this in your further entries, do we?" in which he had to nod and acquiesce before his current entry got even longer.

The Nurse often boasted of detailed records of each and every child who came into their care, and Harry knew that they dated back to when it was first founded.

The orphanage had been founded in 1925. If the tradition had remained the same, Tom Riddle's drawing would have been hung up when he had been 10 years old, which meant Tom came into the orphanage at 1926. He would have been among the first few to have lived there.

Harry unlatched the last cabinet, and barely had he yanked open the door when well-worn dusty notebooks came tumbling out into his hands. He flipped open the thin crumbly pages gingerly until he found the records on Riddle. The light on his wand tip brightened. And then, sitting among the scattered pages and decades old pictures staring down from the wall, he began to read.

…

Outside the building, the silent _crack!_ of someone Apparating fell deaf to Harry's ears.

…

 **A/N: All the Tom and Harry stories I've read usually have Harry hating Tom right from the beginning, because he already knows he is essentially young Voldemort, and Tom being a psychopath is already a given. Not all psychopaths are always so distinctive however. I've always wanted to explore Riddle's development into psychopathy, and I do think it's highly probable that the people associating with Tom wouldn't have known what he was before. Which includes Harry (seeing as he's still clueless in my story). After all throughout the series Tom was always described as a 'charming intelligent boy', with no one save Dumbledore guessing his true nature.**

 **Oh, and credits and disclaimers to fantastic drama 'I Remember You', in which I derived my ideas and research for psychopathy and further character development.**

 **That aside, do tell me what you think, and I hope I'm still up to par after so long. It was very hard for me to grasp back my original flow of writing.**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**

 **Reviews please? :p**

 **P.S: Is this getting rather dark? Would you advise turning up the rating? *curious***


	16. Chapter 16

**Million thanks to** _Snooowy, The Other World, bluecimmers, booklover 19a, Scarlett Woman, Azniro-Yes Me, Blue Luver5000, jayfeather63, amazing, randomplotbunny, SernaJ, Clarrise Selwyn and Guest._ **Thanks for sticking through with the story even though I know I'm not as good hehe. And your amazing reviews, which keep inspiring me to write more. Thank youu :3**

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

* * *

 _Entries for TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE  
Resident since 1926_

 _ **31**_ _ **st**_ _ **Dec '26**_

 _The boy's mother passed away minutes after he was born. We are to have a new addition after all. According to his mother, he's to be named Tom Marvolo Riddle, after his father. Can't say I think much of the name, but of course a dying lady's wishes are to be honoured._

…

 _ **30**_ _ **th**_ _ **Aug '27**_

 _Tom spoke his first word today. It was extraordinary! He has always been an alert child, but I believe we have underestimated him. I tried taking his blanket to wash, but the moment he saw me he pointed at it and said "Mine". The same thing happened when Mary picked up his cup. I do think Tom will grow up to be a very intelligent boy._

…

 _ **1929**_

 _There isn't much to say. Normally boys his age will be causing lots of fuss by now, but Tom is a very quiet._

 _The teachers say he's showing signs of a genius mind. Apparently he has very great intellect, and I'm not surprised. But I'm concerned about his social circle. None of the other children seem to want to mix with him. They call him 'freaky'. Apparently he's been able to make things grow invisible and make things 'fly'. I understand children and their overactive imagination, but the matter hasn't abated for over weeks now. I do hope they'll grow out of it._

…

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

Dumbledore watched quietly from the shadows as a figure shifted in the dark, in the space behind the desk on the floor. He had no idea what the other was trying to achieve in the pitch blackness, but nevertheless the shuffling noises continued. It seemed as though the other was searching through sheafs of papers; and for a while the only sound which punctuated the silence was the turning of pages. Then there was a sharp intake of breath – and a permanent stillness.

For a while the elder wizard simply stood in the silence, not moving a muscle. Then a young voice called out into the dark.

"Who are you sir?"

Dumbledore was vaguely surprised. He had not applied a Disillusionment Charm, finding it unnecessary in the dark; but apparently the other had astoundingly good night vision. Either that, or some form of magic was involved.

" _Lumos,"_ he said aloud, before holding his wand aloft. The bright beam of light illuminated the tip of his wand, and he found himself staring at the hauntingly familiar face of a raven-haired boy with emerald eyes he would never forget. A sense of foreboding gripped him, and his heart sank.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," Dumbledore said softly, more to himself. He walked across towards where Harry was crouched on the floor, seemingly hesitant whether or not he could trust the newcomer. "What are you doing here, my boy?" he asked Harry instead. There was no need for any further confirmation; the boy was a spitting image of his father even at his young age.

"I would ask you the same question," Harry returned, an edge to his voice. There was no longer any pretense of cordial formality, replaced instead with wariness and defensiveness. Dumbledore noticed that he was shaking ever so slightly, and even more than that the boy's magic was running wild, betraying the calm Harry projected. He cast his eyes to the strewn papers on the floor, pausing slightly to note the two-faced boy picture on the table.

"I came because I found that someone had trespassed the wards," Dumbledore answered in a placid tone. "Only a wizard could have managed it, and as far as I know no one was authorized permission. It raised my concerns."

His piercing blue eyes studied Harry closely, wondering what Harry would make out of it. With a terrible lurch of his heart he realized now he knew nothing about the boy at all, not even Harry's upbringing, due to his own negligence. It seemed as though Severus had been right about Fletcher.

Harry on his part simply stared back, as if unmoved by the intensity of his scrutiny. Something behind the desk shifted, and there was a dull plonk as something heavy landed in a thump in the shelves behind them. The papers on the floor fluttered up before scattering back into their messily strewn state, as if a draught had entered the room and died. Dumbledore watched silently. It wasn't a mere bout of accidental magic, he knew. Harry was trying to hide whatever he had been doing. Either Harry had developed control over his powers by himself like young Riddle had before him – or the boy had been trained.

"Where are you guardians?" Dumbledore asked instead, keeping his tone carefully light. He lowered his wand and gestured for Harry to step out from behind the desk, but the boy refused to walk past him, eyeing him instead with a measure of wariness. It was unnerving.

"I'll be returning then," Harry said instead, cutting him off stiffly. "I'm sorry for trespassing, sir."

Dumbledore's hand caught the boy's shoulder before he could move far. The boy visibly flinched under his touch. "I'm afraid that is not possible."

That line seemed to trigger an instinct within Harry. In the next second, with a move which spoke of practiced ease, Harry shrugged himself free of Dumbledore's grip and ducked down under his arm to escape – but Dumbledore's wand was already out. Harry found himself stumbling back from an invisible barrier which marked the middle of the room.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice a mixture of firmness and regret.

Brilliant emerald eyes turned back to look at him, shock and uncertainty reflected in them. He tried to step backwards to increase the space between them, but Dumbledore's magic did not relent.

"How do you know who I am?" Harry questioned, the sharpness in his tone mingled with apprehension.

"I was once placed in charge of your care when you were one year old, Harry," Dumbledore replied evenly, giving no sign of being perturbed by Harry's continuous neutral display towards magic. "I had handed you over to your relatives, who migrated overseas shortly after. For the past nine years I was under the impression that you had gone with them. I guess it was my short-sightedness that led to all this… the Dursleys had been reluctant to say the least, but I was hoping Petunia could have looked past decades-old grudges."

He paused slightly to gauge their surroundings while Harry stood there wide-eyed, watching him.

"Why was I under _your_ care?" Harry blurted, a trifle incredulously. Dumbledore eyed him, speculative, and a strange sort of silence fell upon them, tense and unbroken.

"I was a good friend of your parents' before they passed away," the Headmaster replied finally, suddenly sounding a lot older than he did before. He shook his head slightly, before continuing with a small smile, "Did you grow up at Wool's, Harry?"

That question seemed to shake Harry out of his stupor. He inched further away from Dumbledore, his hand fingering the wand hidden beneath his sleeve. He didn't know who the elder wizard was, but Tom had warned him against trusting any other wizard. Even more than that, Harry had stolen something from the Wizarding museum the day before; and while he was certain he had left no trace behind, he wouldn't put it past them to track him down. He couldn't afford to let his guard down. And yet –

"How do I know I can trust your words?" Harry addressed Dumbledore in a neutral tone. "You claim to know my identity, and yet you won't tell me your name."

Dumbledore looked briefly surprised at this. "Alas, old age does that to some people," he said with a slight chuckle. "Forgive me. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm Headmaster of Hogwarts school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, if you've heard of it before."

To this, however, Dumbledore got no reply. The elder wizard stared impassively at the young boy, but quite abruptly a flicker of pain had crossed Harry's features. Dumbledore made to advance, but Harry shifted backwards only to hit the invisible wall again, which prevented him from moving further. He gave no further indication of what had happened, but his fists were tightly clenched by his side.

"I need to go," Harry said abruptly, his face taut. He didn't mention what was bothering him, neither did he show any more curiousity towards Dumbledore's identity. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, but Harry didn't wait for a reply – he turned to leave again, but the barrier did not allow him to pass. Harry could have easily used the Forsildan rune, but for some reason a strange unease gripped him. It was as if Dumbledore was testing him, watching to see what he would do in response. The sharp pain in his forehead stabbed him again, but Harry resisted the urge to clamp his fingers over his scar.

"Why aren't you letting me pass?" he questioned instead, his voice tight, back facing Dumbledore.

This time, Dumbledore's voice wasn't as relenting as before. "Because I have the responsibility to bring you back to where you actually belong," the elder wizard replied. Harry turned back to face the other, a definite stir of defiance growing, but suddenly a strange light began to flash. It was originating from Dumbledore's pocket. Harry watched as the other reached into his robes to draw out a curious silver instrument. It was spinning madly in Dumbledore's hands, emitting flashes of white light as it did.

"What are you - " Harry began, but right at that moment his scar exploded in pain. He staggered, only to slump against the magical barrier Dumbledore had constructed to prevent him from leaving. Automatically Harry's fingers came up to his forehead, and with a sinking sense of dread he noted they came away stained red. He shifted his eyes upwards and managed to shoot the Headmaster a furious glare through the dim haze of pain.

"Stop it," he hissed angrily.

A flicker of worry and surprise passed over Dumbledore's face. "Harry – " he began, but this time he got no further. The temperature had plunged sharply; it was clear that someone else had entered the room. Harry felt the other's magic before he actually appeared, his power flooding out and suffocating all the occupants in the vicinity. It tasted vaguely of fear and death, like the night the very building they were in had been destroyed.

Harry didn't managed to turn around to see the newcomer, but at that moment an unmistakably cold and dangerous voice cut through the darkness.

" _He isn't yours, Dumbledore."_

 _..._

* * *

 _ **4**_ _ **th**_ _ **Feb '30**_

 _A massive shooting broke out not far from the orphanage. We tried to gather all of the children quickly, but Tom alone was missing. He'd gone out with the older children and not come back._

 _Tom returned by himself an hour later after everything had cleared. I don't how he managed it. He didn't say anything except that he was fine. But I suspect that he's already seen things he's not supposed to._

 _ **10**_ _ **th**_ _ **Feb '30**_

 _The authorities have cleared up most of it quickly. A number of people from our village were killed. Mike was one of them, so was Principal Grey._

 _We brought the children to the memorial at the graveyard. I don't think the younger ones understood what happened though. At any rate they weren't that close with Principal Grey, being new to school and all. I was afraid of bringing Tom, but Mary said he should because everyone was going. Besides, she says it'll give the children a sense of closure, and hopefully they'll feel better when they know it's all over and they're safe now. I suppose it makes some sense. We've all been pretty badly shaken up lately._

 _ **11**_ _ **th**_ _ **Feb '30**_

 _The school teacher sent me Tom's drawings in art class. She was concerned because of the disturbing contents of his works. She'd asked them to draw pictures of plants, and Tom had painted a field of grass flooded with red._

 _The teacher asked if he'd accidentally spilt the paint, but Tom was surprised that she couldn't tell. He said that it was blood._

 _ **14**_ _ **th**_ _ **Feb '30**_

 _Amy's pet hamster has been missing for over a week. I told the girl that it had probably run away. But I caught Tom in the backyard today. He told me he was only building sandcastles, but I know he was burying something. I saw a tail peeking out of the sand._

 _I think something's gone wrong with the boy. I have no idea how to solve it._

* * *

...

 _-X-_

The moment Tom stepped out into the light, Dumbledore's demeanour had changed completely. He straightened imperceptibly, his blue eyes losing their twinkle to be replaced by a ferocity of power lurking behind their deceptively kind depths. His mouth tightened.

"Tom," he greeted, quietly. His voice was icy.

Tom gave no indication to have heard him. Harry stood there helplessly, caught between two powerful wizards. It was evident that both wizards had an ugly history between them, and he had no idea how to react. Even worse, the burning pain in his scar was building to a climax; the bleeding wouldn't stop. He cursed softly and tried to siphon off some of the blood, and on that mark Tom's eyes flickered to him, unreadable, before returning to Dumbledore.

"Let him go free," Tom said. There was no inflection his voice, nothing but a simple order, warning and dangerous. Dumbledore's eyes only hardened.

"I'm afraid that is out of the question."

Tom smirked, an edge of his mouth turned upwards cruelly, mocking. He advanced half a step forwards, and Harry's breath caught in his throat when he saw the other again. Tom's eyes were a burning crimson. There was no doubt about it. No flecks of dark emerald remained within them.

" _No?"_ Tom said softly, his head cocked to one side. Then, suddenly, before either of them could even blink – he slashed down his wand, tearing apart Dumbledore's barrier with a large seam running down the middle. An arc of red expanded from the tip of his wand and sliced through the air towards Dumbledore, only to be countered by a Shield Charm. The clash of both spells exploded backwards in a flash of blinding light, illuminating the darkly lit room for a brief moment before both faded out into stray sparks.

Barely had the heat of the battle died before it began in earnest – this time instigated by Dumbledore. Brilliant jets of light burst from the tip of his wand, furious and deadly; Tom snarled as he let loose a blast of golden flames which writhed into a two-headed snake monster, standing between him and Dumbledore. Harry's breath hitched as he recalled the instance he'd first seen them before realizing the significance of the creature. And then the Fiendfyre turned against the Headmaster with a blood-curdling roar, descending mercilessly upon the elder wizard, who cast the Counter-curse in a burst of brilliant blue to fend off the flames, seemingly for naught –

A huge wave of steam rose up like a wall, warping into the shape of a spiral before spinning round at the two-headed snake and chaining them together. Harry shrunk back slightly at the heat burning against his skin – the Fiendfyre didn't touch him, but the heat made the pain in his scar unbearable. Then a shimmering mist projected from the ceiling to the floor, fencing out every tendril of flames and leaving Dumbledore unscathed.

In the single moment Dumbledore had been distracted by the fire, Tom had circled over – almost standing over Harry but not quite; and simultaneously backing the elder wizard into the corner. For a moment Dumbledore looked weary as his age; it was clear that the battle had taken quite a lot out of him, but Harry had the vague feeling that Tom despite appearances was not holding up too well either.

"Harry, you should know that Tom is not who he seems," he said sharply, though his eyes remained entirely fixed on the taller wizard, who showed no sign of yielding. "He's been lying to you. He is no friend of yours."

Tom laughed, the sound cold and eerie in the dark basement. "I never lied to him, Dumbledore."

Barely had the last words left his lips before both wizards were moving again, wands slashing in a deadly arc, spells ricocheting back-and-forth in a violent clash of power. Harry ducked down as one of the stray spells hit the table and exploded outwards, splinters flying in all directions. But even before any of them could come too close, all of them stopped in mid-air and abruptly changed their course, aiming for Dumbledore, who destroyed them in a whirl of bluish-white flames.

And then, quite abruptly, Dumbledore began to call something in a foreign language he couldn't recognize. The air seemed to crackle with power as both wizards dueled; there was no reprieve, no mercy in their attacks. They were aiming to kill.

The ferocious whipping of wind – the Fiendfyre trapped by Dumbledore's magic breaking free with a terrible cry -

Tom, hissing something in Parseltongue – and then –

A hundred _cracks_ sounding the Apparition of wizards filled Harry's ears. Through the heat of the battle Harry thought he saw a gleam of triumph in Dumbledore's eyes and felt a sudden frigidness stab at his heart.

Dumbledore had been stalling for time.

Tom's magic had wrecked a hole through Dumbledore's barrier which had prevented Harry from moving towards the exit, but it was currently blocked by the two-headed fire monster attacking Dumbledore. Through a haze of pain Harry tried to Summon his magic to cast the Forsildan rune again, but the agony pounding in his mind made it too difficult for him to focus on anything else. Desperately he tried again and again, willing the blue pulsing circle around him to blaze to life, but it only did so for the briefest of moments before it flickered out and died. His world tilted precariously. His energy had all been used up.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. He wasn't the only one who'd noticed it after all. Harry managed to make out Tom's eyes staring down at him – a paradoxical mixture of crimson red and the smallest fractals of green illuminated by the roaring gold fires, and then the world twisted violently, and everything went black.

…

* * *

 _ **6**_ _ **th**_ _ **June '33**_

 _I've tried turning a blind eye on him, but it's not working out. First Billy Stubb's rabbit, and now this. They used to call him a freak, but now they say he's a monster. And frankly speaking, I'm afraid I cannot deny that._

 _Mary has moved Tom into the basement beside our office. She says that seclusion is the best for him, and besides she's afraid that he's not safe for the other children. I can't say I disagree with that considering what happened on the school trip today, but I have a feeling that this will only backfire on us._

 _Tom is growing into a monster, and I have no idea how to stop him._

…

 _ **6**_ _ **th**_ _ **June '35**_

 _The entire basement door caved in and collapsed. I have no idea how it happened. Mary had been trying to enter when it did. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this down, because it's hardly relevant – but I have a feeling that it's connected to him somehow. It's a strange coincidence that Mary had been the one who had assured Tom he only needed to stay there for one more year, after he'd asked to be moved the last._

 _I was thankful that Tom wasn't in there when it happened, and I told him so, but when I mentioned that Mary was badly hurt and had to be carried away in an ambulance – Tom smiled. I think it's the first time I've seen him smiling._

 _Honestly I'm scared. I'm helpless. All I know is that Mary was wrong. We shouldn't have kept him in that prison-like place. But now it's too late to undo any of it. The isolation didn't do him any good; rather it just made him grow into the very thing we tried to prevent him to become._

…

-X-

 **A/N: Yay 16 chapters done! I'm almost halfway to 20! I rarely have far progress with my stories. Really bad habit, I know. The record shows most of them getting stuck at 14 or 15.**

 **Hope this chapter is beginning to answer your questions in the front. I know the front chapters are a bit slow-paced, but I hope I'll be able to pick it up soon. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read and all that, and I hope you'll review :p**

 **Rating system:**

 **:D for amazing**

 **O for okay**

 **X for terrible**

 **Thanks! :p**


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